


101 Ways to Nearly Kill John Watson

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sherlock, Angst, Long-Suffering John, M/M, Pain, Supportive Greg, Supportive Mycroft, Thoughtless Sherlock, Trying to kill John, anguish, but sometimes not!, sometimes deliberate but sometimes accidental, sometimes it's the bad guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:58:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 41,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to a collection of stories in which the author (me) tries really hard to kill off John Watson, and his friends - and even the man himself - work hard to thwart those attempts!</p><p>Each chapter is a separate attempt to kill him.</p><p>There is a list of 101 ways that I'll try to kill him, but they are not all written yet....</p><p>There will be some friendship, some Johnlock and some Mystrade.......you have been warned!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invisible Killer

The room was lit with the soft glow of firelight, and as Sherlock entered like a whirlwind through the front door the flames in the grate flickered, throwing strange eerie shadows around the room.

He had just opened his mouth to call his friend’s name when he spotted it, the lump on the couch, covered in blankets and decidedly John-shaped, with a tuft of blond hair sticking out at one end.

His heart jumped up into this throat as he studied his surroundings – not 221B, John had walked out of there a month ago, vowing never to return – no, this was a poor substitute for the home they had shared, this was not quite a bedsit, not quite a flat.

The front door opened straight into this room, where the couch, the only form of seating in the room, doubled as a bed. In an obvious effort to conserve energy and money, the couch had been pulled up in front of the open fire, the only source of warmth. Through the open doorway that led to the tiny kitchen a noticeable draft blew like a gale, and at the far end of the kitchen another door led to a toilet/wet room.  Sherlock ran a quick calculation through his head – even at the ‘affordable’ rents that the landlord charged, he could see the man was squeezing as many of these flats as possible into limited space, maximising profit. He hated that he had driven his only friend to this.

As he turned to survey the kitchen workspace, the young man could see his breath on the frigid air, the heat of the flames in the living room grate barely reaching the past the sleeping man….

A frown creased Sherlock’s brow as he stared at his friend, wrapped up in blanket, asleep on the couch.  Something was wrong. Something was decidedly not good about the scene in front of him.

John was a soldier, a frontline doctor.  He may have been a civilian now for three years, but John had never lost his ability to sleep light (except, Sherlock conceded, when his flatmate had kept him awake for too long chasing a case), yet here he was, not being particularly stealthy in his perusal of his friend’s new living quarters, and the good doctor hadn’t stirred.

Aware that his next planned move might, if he had misjudged the situation, find him face to face with John’s (illegal) service weapon, he strode across to where John lay and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

No response.

He shook him a bit harder.

Still nothing.

More than a bit not good then, Sherlock thought to himself as he pulled the covers off the other man, yet even such rough treatment elicited no response. 

“John!” Sherlock’s voice was sharp, an edge of panic in it that even he was unable to explain.  He checked his friend for signs of injury, but there was nothing.  John had simply dressed in his warmest pyjamas, with a sweatshirt over his usual tatty t-shirt, put on thick socks to keep his feet warm and wrapped himself up in his blankets.

Putting the blankets back over his friend the consulting detective made a quick search of the flat – he wanted to be sure the doctor hadn’t succumbed to the depression that had once threatened to overwhelm him, in the days before they shared a flat.  Sherlock was looking for anything that he might have taken – sleeping pills, anti-depressants – anything that he could overdose on, but the flat was clean. 

Returning to his friend, Sherlock prised open his eyelids, checking his pupils – they were non-responsive, but being this close the younger man could see John’s skin was pink and healthy looking – except that pink and healthy looking wasn’t normal for John.  Normal was lightly tanned – he only ever looked this pink when Sherlock did or said something to embarrass him.

Sherlock’s mind was working now at speed, his eyes taking in everything about the man lying before him. Checking his pulse he noted it was far too rapid for someone so deeply asleep.

Glancing over his shoulder at the dying fire his eyes widened, and he looked back at his friend with renewed fear. In one smooth movement he pulled John, blankets and all, up onto his shoulder in a passable firemen’s lift, fumbling for his mobile as he carried the unconscious man out of the flat.

Dialling 999, he almost screamed at the operator to put him through to the Ambulance Service. Moments later, a calm voice reached his ears.

“London Ambulance Service, what is your…”

“I need an ambulance now” Sherlock didn’t give the operator time to finish. “My friend is unconscious, totally unresponsive. I believe he is suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning” Manoeuvring through the front door to the building, the young man eased his burden down onto the front steps, sitting next to him and pulling the blankets tightly around him as he answered the call operator’s questions and gave the address.

Sitting in the cold night air, it seemed to Sherlock that they waited for hours, but in truth it was little more than ten minutes before he could see the blue lights of the approaching ambulance.

After a brief check of the unconscious man’s stats, the paramedics loaded John into the ambulance and Sherlock leapt in alongside him.

“Are you family?” the paramedic asked as he slipped an oxygen mask over his patient’s face.

“He has no family” Sherlock lied, blithely ignoring the existence of Harry Watson. “I’m his friend”

xXx

The first thing John noticed as his senses returned, was that he was warm – warmer than he had been in a long time. He lay, luxuriating in the feeling of a soft, comfortable, warm bed – until his memory prodded him, reminding him that his flat didn’t have a proper bed, and what it did have was generally lumpy and uncomfortable.  Warm was not a word used to describe the flat at all. The next thing was the pounding in his head.

He drew in a deep breath, and was brought up short by the smell of disinfectant and starched sheets. Hospital? How the hell…..?

“John?” Sherlock had seen the signs of consciousness returning, and was now standing peering down at his friend, watching as he blinked sleepily in the harsh fluorescent light.

“Sh’lock?” the army doctor’s mouth felt as if he’d been chewing cotton wool, and the hand he was trying to raise to his face to wipe the fog away from his eyes wouldn’t cooperate with his brain. “How…?”

“Your new flat’s a death trap” the younger man spat angrily. “If you must live somewhere other than Baker Street, you could at least find a decent flat, with proper heating and a landlord who cares what happens to his tenants.”

As John looked away, ashamed and unable to keep eye contact, Sherlock realised that maybe the other man had had little choice.  His insistence that the doctor give up his work at the surgery to work solely with him meant that the only money John had was his army pension, and finding a job after giving up a perfectly good post for the flimsiest of reasons would be hard.

“Come home.”

The soft spoken words had John’s eyes snapping back to the other man’s face.  He said nothing, his eyes trying to read the meaning behind Sherlock’s words.

The silence stretched, and the two men continued to stare at each other, totally oblivious of the hustle and bustle of the busy A&E department.

Finally John could stand no more.

“But I’m stupid and useless.  Why would you want me underfoot, holding you back?” quietly he reminded his ex-flatmate of the words he had flung at the doctor in anger, just four weeks previously. “Why?”

Sherlock frowned. He realised that his first thought – that at least John would have a decent place to live if he came back – was probably not what this proud ex-soldier wanted to hear. He would think he was being offered charity.

Suddenly it was clear what he needed to say.  He fidgeted nervously with the blanket covering his friend, then blurted out

“I’m sorry! I was wrong, John – that’s what I was coming to say to you.  I need you to help me with cases, I need you to keep the idiots away…”

A slight smile twitched at the corner of the older man’s mouth.

“Well that was bloody honest at any rate”

“Of course it’s honest…” Sherlock realised that his friend was smiling, and pressed his advantage, “Come home – Mrs Hudson misses you.”


	2. An Inside Job

John and Sherlock stood staring down the length of the empty, dilapidated waterfront warehouse.  The youth they had chased was at the far end of the building, bent double, hands on knees, trying to get his breath back.

“Something doesn’t feel right” John muttered to Sherlock, his eyes never leaving their quarry.

“No John, he’s just stupid” Sherlock bother to lower his voice as he started once more to move towards the boy, but John didn’t move except to tilt his head as if listening to something.

“Wait Sherlock, can you hear…?” screwing his face up and concentrating, John tried to block out everything except the faint roaring that seemed out of place on this stretch of the Thames frontage.

The youth heard it too, and as it grew louder he looked up at the approaching detective and started to laugh. 

In that split second, John realised what was about to happen. Time seemed to slow down as his glance shifted from the two people ahead of him to the glassless window. Across the overgrown vehicle access area the Land Rover bounced, its speed increasing as it approached the building, aiming straight for the centre, where Sherlock had now stopped to look back, puzzled.

There was no time to shout a warning. John flew across the concrete floor and rugby-tackled Sherlock out of the way just as the vehicle crashed through the rotting wooden wall. Waiting only for the youth to climb in the back, the driver then reversed and spun round, pulling away with a screech of tyres and leaving a trail of rubber on the cracked tarmac.

As the dust settled, John lifted his head and looked around, taking in the gaping hole in the wall, and the timbers hanging precariously from the roof.

Both men were covered in dust and cobwebs, splinters of damp worm-eaten wood clung to their hair and clothes, and as they eased their way out of the rubble the sound of approaching sirens heralded the arrival of Lestrade and his team.

Stepping out of the plain black police car Sally Donovan laughed at the two men.

“Oh look!  It’s Worzel Gummidge and friend.” she smirked as she saw puzzlement on Sherlock’s face.

“You volunteering for the role of Aunt Sally then?” John retorted, glancing up at Sherlock and explaining “A life-sized fairground doll. Very pretty,” he paused and watched the smile grow wider on Sally’s face. “No brains.”

“Oi!”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Pop culture?”

“Kid’s books.”

“If you’ve quite finished?” Lestrade asked wearily.

“The boy obviously knows more than he’s letting on.” Sherlock said, brushing himself down, watching as John did the same. “He dropped this - ”he handed Lestrade a card advertising a new internet café “ – you should be able to pick him up there.”

“Great. All we need now are your statements.” Greg pointed to Sally’s car. “Jump in, we’ll give you a lift to the Yard. Once the paperwork’s done Sally can take you home.”

“What??” Sally’s eyes bugged.

“That won’t be...”

“Thanks, Greg.  I doubt very much even the great genius here could persuade a cabbie to take us covered in this much muck.” John smiled and pushed his flatmate towards the car. “C’mon. Sooner we do this, the sooner we can get home and get cleaned up.”

O*O*O

John sat on the edge of his bed, gently smoothing antiseptic cream onto the cuts and scratches he’d received from the falling building. The doctor had spent half an hour removing splinters that had worked their way through his clothing and into his skin.

Sherlock had been more fortunate, having only grazed his hands as he landed under John on the concrete floor.

Pulling on his pyjamas and dressing gown, John wandered through to the living room, where Sherlock, also in pyjamas and robe, was laying on the couch, eyes closed, fingers steepled against his chin, thinking.

With a small grin, John carried on through to the kitchen and started putting together some dinner, deciding that something quick and easy like an omelette would be sufficient, he was too tired to be more adventurous.

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock actually ate half of his food, and was relatively quiet when making his usual snarky comments about the evening’s entertainment on the television.  He was just thinking about turning in for the night when he noticed Sherlock was watching him closely.

“What?”

“You keep scratching at your side” the younger man observed. “Almost as if you don’t know you’re doing it.”

“Am I?” John undid the belt on his dressing gown and pulled up his t-shirt to look at the offending area. Just above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms was an angry looking red mark. “Right – it was a splinter, a big one at that.  Took a bit of persuading to come out, it just itches a bit now but that’s probably the cream I put on it. It’ll be fine by morning.”

Sherlock nodded and dismissed it from his mind.   Straightening his clothes, John wished his flatmate goodnight and walked through to the kitchen to grab a glass of water before disappearing up to his room.

There was much for Sherlock to think about concerning this case.  He was certain there was more to it, and that the body they had found this morning was either one of many, or merely a decoy.  He had just concluded that there would be more deaths, and was about to text Lestrade to advise him, when the sound of John moving slowly down the stairs distracted him.

“You’re limping.” He stated quietly.

“Jesus Sherlock!  What are you still doing there?” John barely managed to stop the glass from slipping out of his hand as he recovered from the shock of hearing his friend’s voice.

“Thinking.”

“Right. And you couldn’t do that in the comfort of your own room, and possibly in – or at least on – your bed?”

In the half-light from the street Sherlock studied the man standing in the doorway.

“You’re limping,” he repeated, “and shivering. What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?  What on earth could be wrong” John answered a little sharply as he moved to the kitchen to re-fill his glass. “I’m shivering because I’ve dragged myself out of my nice warm bed to get more water, and my maniac flatmate scared the shit out of me by lurking around the living room in the dark, instead of going to bed like any decent human being!”

“That doesn’t explain the limp.” Sherlock replied reasonably. “And you knew I wasn’t a decent human being within a day of moving in, so stop complaining.”

John put his glass down on the table and stared back through the kitchen doorway. Then he chuckled.

“Yeah, s’pose you’ve got a point there.” Taking a gulp of the water, he quickly topped the glass up again and headed back to bed, muttering as he went “and the limp is where I bashed my hip saving your sorry arse once more.”

Sherlock stayed silent, just listening to his friend’s slow progress back up the stairs, a slight frown creasing his brow.

O*O*O

“Morning Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock almost bounced through the front door of the house. His fact-finding trip over to the Embankment had been fruitful, and now he just needed to sit down and consider the information he had gathered.

His landlady smiled and returned his greeting, then turned her attention back to the hall table that was currently smeared with wax, waiting to be polished.

Carrying on up and into the flat, the consulting detective was mildly surprised to find his flatmate lying on the sofa still wearing his pyjamas and wrapped in blankets, an empty tea mug and a half full glass of water on the table beside him.

“John?”

Bleary eyes opened slightly, squinting up at him from the woollen cocoon.

“Sh’lock, been out?”

“Obvious, John. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“Think I might have flu.” John croaked, shivering violently and pulling the blankets firmly around him. 

Sherlock frowned as he removed his coat and scarf, noting the flush along John’s cheeks.

“Why didn’t you stay in bed?”

“Needed more water. Didn’t fancy trying to carry it upstairs though.”

“Ah. Do you need anything else?”

A shaky hand reached out to grasp the glass of water, and the liquid was gulped down.

“More water please, and can you grab the paracetamol from the med kit.”

Making swift work of these tasks, Sherlock tipped two capsules into his friends hand and passed him a fresh glass of water, watching as he struggled to sit up and take the medication.

“Think I’ll just stay here for a while.” John sounded tired, and his eyes looked heavy as he settled himself back down onto the cushions. “Maybe I can sleep it off.”

“I’ll be in my room.” Sherlock paused, and then somewhat uncharacteristically he moved to the window and closed the curtains, reducing the light levels in the room.  He stopped to look down at John as he passed, and realised the other man was already asleep.

O*O*O

Mid-afternoon found Sherlock and Lestrade staring down at another corpse.  Preliminary examination showed he had died in the same way as the man they had found the previous day. While they watched the body being taken up into the private ambulance, Greg looked keenly at the young man at his side.

“Where’s John?  He okay? He took a bit of a battering yesterday.”

“I left him asleep on the couch – apparently he’s got flu.”

When that statement was greeted with silence, Sherlock turned his head to look at the Detective Inspector.

“Problem?”

“You tell me, Sherlock.  That sounded distinctly like you don’t believe him.”

Sherlock’s brows knitted together as he considered the man he’d left sleeping at home.

“It’s May.” He said finally, looking expectantly at the policeman beside him.

“I don’t follow.” Greg stared right back at him, trying to figure what the time of year had to do with it.

Shaking his head, Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets and rolled his eyes.

“Flu season is generally October to March, it’s highly unlikely that he’s got flu, yet he has all the symptoms.”

“And he’s a doctor, and should be able to tell whether or not it’s the flu.”

“Maybe.” Sherlock said thoughtfully, turning to walk away.

“Hey! Where are you off to?”

“Home Inspector. Text me if anything else turns up.” And with that he walked out to the main road and hailed a cab.

Less than 15 minutes later, as he stepped into the flat he knew John was worse.  There was a sour smell in the air, and he heard the toilet being flushed, and water running – too long for just washing his hands, no matter that the doctor was always scrupulously thorough about that, Sherlock listened to the pattern of the breaks in the water and to the splashes.  John was rinsing his face too, and swilling his mouth. 

He stood and waited for the bathroom door to open, and when it did his eyes took in every detail of the man leaning against the door frame, one hand protectively holding his side.

“This isn’t flu, is it John? Wrong time of year.”

“Old wives tale.” John huffed a short laugh as he eased himself forwards towards the living room. “You can get flu anytime of the year; it’s just more common in winter.”

“You’ve been sick, and you’ve got…”

“Yeah, right. Don’t need reminding genius, having just spent fifteen minutes in there trying to work out which bit of me wanted to empty itself first.”

Instead of sitting down, John half shuffled, half limped across to the bookshelf, reaching up and snagging a largish medical tome.  Spotting the intense look on his flatmate’s face, the doctor eased himself down into his chair and gestured for Sherlock to do the same.

“You’re probably right about it not being flu – I suspected as much shortly before you arrived home.” He flicked through the pages of the book, his eyes darting back and forth across the pages, until he found what he was looking for.  Marking the page with his finger, he met his friend’s gaze steadily.

“The limp has little to do with landing badly, the pain is getting worse rather than easing off.” He waited for Sherlock’s nod of understanding, and then continued. “While I was in the bathroom I checked that itchy cut – it’s not looking good.”

“But it was just a small scratch you said, a splinter.”

“And so it was, but not now.”

Leaning slightly to his left, John pulled up his t-shirt once more.  The area around the scratch had become swollen and inflamed, but alongside the injury itself the skin was mottled and flaky looking. Sherlock moved forward, hand outstretched to touch it.

“Don’t!”

“But…”

“No, Sherlock.  If this is what I think it is, then I don’t want you anywhere near it.” He flipped the book around and held it out, the page open to the diagnosis he had made.

As his friend read the page in front of him, John sunk back down in his chair, exhausted and shaky.

At last Sherlock looked back up at him.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

O*O*O

Sherlock paced the floor in the relative’s waiting room.  The Staff sister had wanted him to go away and come back later, but John had insisted, between bouts of throwing up, that Sherlock was the closest thing he had to a family and he _needed_ him there. That revelation had startled him, but what he had read in John’s face was fear, and he promised his friend he would be waiting for him.

He finally stopped pacing and stood, staring blindly out of the window. So lost in thought was he that he was barely aware when the door opened and someone else entered the room.  Greg Lestrade had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he read Sherlock’s terse text, now he stood in the doorway of the waiting room, staring at the consulting detective, seeing disbelief and worry on those sharp pale features.

“How the fuck did this happen?” Greg’s voice was harsher than intended, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.  He just looked across at the older man, noting the concern in his face.

“It’s bacterial. John thinks it was carried on the splinters he picked up yesterday.”

“But surely he cleaned it up?  I mean, he’s a doctor.”

“Yes Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped, “he cleaned it up; he cleaned it thoroughly _because_ he’s a doctor, but the bacteria must have transferred through the scratch made by the splinter he removed.”

Greg sat heavily on one of the handful of armchairs in the room, and leaned his elbows on his knees.

“What is it, this necro – whatever it is?”

“Necrotising Fasciitis.” Sherlock flung himself down in a chair opposite him and, leaning his head back, stared at the ceiling. “People call it the flesh-eating bug, but it’s not – it simply releases toxins in the skin that kill it.”

“Jesus!” Greg raked his fingers through his hair. “What are they doing now?”

“Exploratory operation. See how far the flesh has necrotised, they’ll take out what they can, pump him full of antibiotics…” his voice trailed off.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“It can be fatal.”

A heavy silence settled on the room, as both men sunk into their own bleak thoughts. Neither noticed the passage of time, but eventually the door opened and a green-suited theatre sister stepped into the room.

“Mr Holmes? You can go in and see him now.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet, towering over the petite woman.

“What is the prognosis? Will he be alright?”

Greg reached out a hand to restrain the younger man, but the lady smiled and shook her head slightly, returning her attention to the other man.

“It’s a good job he’s a doctor, and recognised the symptoms. We’ve removed quite a bit of necrotising flesh, but we are confident we’ve removed it all, and fortunately it hadn’t worked its way deep enough to have attacked the muscles.” She smiled. “Let me take you through, you’ll want to be there when he wakes up.  I’ll need to ask you to leave your coat and jacket here with your friend though, and you’ll have to wear a set of surgical coveralls.”

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who held his hand out for the discarded clothes.

“Go on, I’ll be here when they kick you out.” Greg smiled, relieved.

O*O*O

At first John thought he was dreaming. Then, with a touch of dread, he thought that maybe his flatmate had performed the operation on him. And each of these thoughts could be read on his face, causing said flatmate to chuckle softly.

“No, I didn’t – but that’s not to say I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t banned me from getting too close to the infection site.”

John smiled up at him, noting the relief in Sherlock’s eyes.  Gradually his smile faded and he became thoughtful.

“Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For being here when I came out.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just reached across and gently squeezed his friend’s arm.

“Who knows what trouble you’d have got yourself into without me watching your back.”


	3. A Spot of Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry John - this one selected from the list by Ennui Enigma. Special thanks to Lucy36 for Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock jumped out of the cab and having paid his fare, picked up his suitcase and slammed in through the front door, his face creased in a thunderous scowl. 

Mycroft had forced his hand and made it impossible for him to refuse to travel to Cape Town, the British Government having mislaid its ambassador, and Sherlock being the only person available who understood Afrikaans. 

It had been the most boring two weeks of his life, especially as he had deduced almost immediately that the ambassador had, in fact, run off with the wife of one of the local dignitaries, and he then found himself pressed into helping the rather embarrassed embassy staff to get him back, before the jealous husband caught them and exacted his own form of justice.

If that wasn’t bad enough, Sherlock had been forced to share the eleven hour flight back to England with the rather chastened, and more than a little drunk, former ambassador whining in the seat next to him about having lost both his job and the love of his life, so he tuned him out and retreated into his mind palace. And then, to add insult to injury, from the moment he stepped from the aircraft his phone had started ringing – Mycroft. Just the sight of his brother’s name flashing onto the screen set him contemplating any number of painful experiments he’d like to perform on the over-stuffed tailor’s dummy!

He had seen Mycroft’s driver too, waiting for him to clear customs, but he managed to avoid him and get out of the airport and into a taxi without too much hassle – it was worth the exorbitant cab fare to avoid being forced into his sibling’s company.

But the real reason his bad mood had ramped up a couple of notches was the fact that John was ignoring him.  He had advised him of his flight and estimated arrival times the previous day, and received a one word text response - _‘Okay’_.  On the journey from Heathrow he had sent the doctor several texts, and when they weren’t answered he tried ringing – it went straight through to voicemail, which could only mean his phone was switched off.

Now as he thrust his way into the flat his irritation overflowed.

“John! John why is your phone…” he stopped dead and stared at his visitor, not in the least bit pleased to see him sitting in his favourite chair. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?  Where’s John?”

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock in his usual aloof manner, managing to look down his nose at his brother despite remaining seated.

“I said…”

“Yes, I heard you brother.  And if you’d cared to answer your phone when I called you, you would be with Dr Watson now, instead of standing in your flat and glaring at me in that childish manner.”

Sherlock bit back a snarky retort, wiped his face clean of the irritated expression that had settled there, and asked calmly “And where is he?  Where have you sent him?”

“John is in St Thomas’ Hospital, Sherlock. He’s in Intensive Care.”

xXx

John felt awful, and could only be grateful that his flatmate had already been out of the country for nearly a week when he realised that the flu-like symptoms he had were actually something a lot more ominous.  Following all the recognised medical procedures, he had asked Sarah to call in on her way to the surgery to take the necessary swab, and to advise the local Health Protection Unit that they had a suspected case of measles. 

While he was waiting for her to arrive, John made another phone call – this time to Mrs Hudson, asking her to let Sarah in for him, and to advise her he was probably quite contagious so she was not to come up. 

That had been a week ago, and since then he had either been asleep in his room, or asleep on the couch in the living room.  In between bouts of sleeping, he had tried to keep himself hydrated, and despite his best efforts at keeping her away, Mrs Hudson had called in at least once a day with light meals to tempt his almost non-existent appetite.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to open the curtains, John dear? It’s quite nice and sunny outside – you shouldn’t shut yourself in like this.”

John closed his eyes, reached for his patience and took a deep breath.

“I know, Mrs Hudson, and believe me I’d much rather not be sitting in the dark, but the light hurts my eyes.” He told her for what was probably the fifth or sixth time since he’d contracted the disease.

Hovering like a concerned mother hen, Mrs Hudson asked (for what was probably the fifth or sixth time) if that was normal.  John would have rolled his eyes if they hadn’t been so sore.

“Quite common with measles Mrs H, really there’s nothing to worry about, I’m already feeling much better.”

Mollified, the landlady left him lying on the couch and returned to 221A; reminding him to call her if he needed anything. 

He waited, just long enough to be sure she had reached her flat, and then let himself go limp, no longer needing to convince anyone that he was fine.

After a while he gathered up his mobile, grabbed his box of tissues and a large glass of water, and slowly made his way upstairs. 

John hadn’t been in bed for very long before the sound of his text alert invaded his consciousness. He squinted at the screen of his mobile, not really taking in the details of the text, just registering the fact that his flatmate would be home the next day. Typing slowly and carefully he sent a one word response, knowing Sherlock would expect it, yet knowing he would accept its brevity. Too tired to consider doing anything else, he dropped his phone back on the bedside cabinet and curled up under his duvet.

It was some four hours later, while Mrs Hudson was preparing a light evening meal for herself and John, that she first heard it – a soft thudding sound, like someone was running up and down the stairs.  Curious, she left her flat and stood listening at the foot of the stairs.

The sounds were louder here and definitely emanating from 221B. Arming herself with a large and colourful umbrella, the diminutive landlady made her way upstairs, frowning as the uneven rhythm of the drumming became louder, the closer she came to the flat.

Realisation that it wasn’t an intruder hit her as she followed the sound up to John’s room. The doctor was lying on the floor beside his bed, his body rigid, and his eyes rolled back in his head.  The noise she had heard was the sound of his heels drumming on the floor as muscle spasms jerked through his legs.  Stepping around him she reached for his mobile and called the emergency services.

xXx

The staff of the Intensive Care ward opened the door for Sherlock and his brother, and led them to an isolated and curtained off cubicle. Mrs Hudson was sitting next to the bed, her hand stroking John’s arm, her eyes watching his face for signs of change.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered across his friend’s unconscious form, noting the IV’s for fluids and medication, and the oxygen mask fitted tightly over his nose and mouth. He noted also that John was naked but for a sheet that covered him from his hips, which provided him with a degree of modesty but drew attention to the weight he had lost in such a short time, and they had fitted him with a strange looking padded cap. To one side of the bed an electric fan had been set up to gently blow cool air over the patient’s body to help reduce his temperature.

But what really drew his attention was the rash that discoloured most of the visible areas of John’s face and body. It was brownish red, and the spots were so large and close together that they appeared to run into each other – it was hard to believe that this was the same person that had pushed him out of the flat two weeks earlier with a grin and a promise not to throw away his mould cultures that were fermenting nicely in the cupboard under the bathroom sink.

Looking down at the still figure, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.  In his peripheral vision he saw Mrs Hudson reach out her hand to offer him comfort, but he stepped back, blindly turning away and walking swiftly from the ward. 

He didn’t stop walking until he found himself standing outside of the A&E entrance, staring blindly at the traffic.

“Here.” Mycroft’s voice was soft in his ear, and a hand reached over his shoulder offering a cigarette.

Sherlock took it, and the offered lighter, and as he took a deep lungful of smoke he turned to face his brother.

“How did this happen?” He sounded bewildered. “I mean, he’s a doctor – surely…”

“Doctor’s aren’t immune to viruses, Sherlock.  It seems it was just unfortunate that he managed to contract measles despite being vaccinated as a child.” The older man moved to stand next to his sibling. “I’m told it’s extremely rare, but not impossible.”

Looking away again, Sherlock concentrated on his cigarette, drawing in deeply, tasting the acrid smoke as he took it down to his lungs for a moment, then blew it out through his nostrils before repeating the process.

He remained silent as he smoked, then flicking the cigarette end into the road he turned back to his brother.

“I don’t know why he feels the need to work in that damned clinic.” The words were bitter, the tone biting. “It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.”

“Dr Sawyer assures me they’ve had no cases of measles through the clinic, Sherlock.  We don’t know where he came in contact with it, and judging by what he told her, neither does John.”

Mycroft started to walk back into the hospital, and with only the slightest hesitation, Sherlock followed.

As they stepped out of the lift outside the ICU, they were met by Dr Sanford, the doctor in charge of John’s treatment, and after introductions they walked together back to his bedside.

“Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft moved to her side and, gently clasping her elbow, helped her to her feet. “You’ve been here without a break since early this morning, let me at least take you for a nice cup of tea and something to eat.”

“Oh but…” Mrs Hudson hesitated, looking worriedly down at her lodger.

“No, I won’t take no for an answer.” The British Government used all his most persuasive charms on the septuagenarian “Sherlock will be with him, he won’t be alone here.” As he spoke he walked towards the exit, his hand still holding her elbow, carrying her with him by the force of his good manners.

A smile twitched at Sherlock’s lips before he turned his attention to the doctor, and his expression became serious once more.

“What happened?”

“It would appear, Mr Holmes that your friend’s temperature spiked suddenly, causing febrile convulsions.” He looked at the charts as he spoke. “The paramedics recorded a temperature of over 40c.”

Sherlock watched as with professional ease the other man checked the monitors and IV lines.

“We’re giving him intravenous anti-viral, and keeping him lightly sedated so that he doesn’t become agitated and fretful.” Sandford reached over and unclipped a strap, then eased the strange cap from John’s head, leaving his fair hair standing on end as if he’d had an electric shock. “The cold cap is usually used for Chemotherapy, but it has been helping to bring his temperature back down. We’re monitoring him in case he develops post-infection encephalitis.”

“Monitoring how?”

“We performed a lumbar puncture as soon as he came in, the results of which looked good.  Once his temperature is stabilised, we’ll run a CT scan to be certain.” Dr Sanford saw the question in the young man’s face and added “It can get rather warm in the CT; we don’t want to risk another spike.”

“Will he… I mean, what are his chances of a full recovery?”

“Barring further complications, the prognosis is very good.  He is a very lucky man – if your landlady hadn’t found him so quickly, or had hesitated in calling an ambulance, it may have been a different story altogether.”

Nodding, Sherlock slowly sank down into the chair Mrs Hudson had so recently vacated.  He was at a loss as to what to do next – it wasn’t even as if he could rush out and find the villain that put John here, for there was no villain, no crime, just sheer bad luck.

He wasn’t sure how long he had sat, staring at his best friend, but the sound of his brother clearing his throat brought his attention back to his surroundings.

“He looks so young and defenceless.” Mrs Hudson said softly as she stood at Sherlock’s side, one hand resting on his shoulder.

 “Unfortunately you can’t stay with him. Let me take you both home.”

“No Mycroft, I’m not leaving.”

Holmes senior stepped up to his brother, keeping his voice low and controlled.

“In this instance, brother, you have no choice.  This is intensive care; the patients here need complete rest – that includes John. You can come back early in the morning, and remain with him all day, but they will not allow you to stay overnight.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Sherlock dear, your brother’s right,” Mrs Hudson added “And I really don’t want to be alone in the house tonight.”

“And you must know if you make a fuss, they will ban you from coming in to see him altogether.”

 The scowl deepened, but even if Sherlock suspected his landlady of trying to manipulate him, he knew that his brother, on the other hand, was deadly serious.  With ill grace he got to his feet and stalked out of the ward ahead of his companions, completely missing the sly wink his landlady sent his older sibling.

xXx

Sherlock was admitted to the ICU early the next morning, but before he could make his way to John’s cubicle Dr Sanford beckoned him over to a computer at the nurse’s station.

“Mr Holmes,” he said with a wry smile, “I don’t know quite how your brother managed to pull these particular strings, but as soon as Dr Watson’s temperature had stabilised a CT team were put on standby, and at seven o’clock this morning he had his scan.”

The younger man was careful not to smirk, and simply agreed that yes, his brother had a way of getting things done.

The doctor pointed to the computer, where a black and white CT image filled the screen.

“These,” he flicked through several views “are Dr Watson’s scans, and fortunately they all look perfectly normal.”

“So this means that there will be no long term damage?”

The doctor nodded. “It also means we have been able to take him off the sedatives, and we should soon be able to ease off the anti-viral too.”

Turning away from the computer, the two men walked slowly through the ward to where John still lay, isolated from the rest of the patients.

“We’ll wait for him to wake up, and as soon as we’re sure he’s stable and showing signs of recovery he can be moved to the private room that your brother has arranged for him.” As he offered his hand to Sherlock, he added “Talk to him, it may help him with the initial disorientation, you know, waking up somewhere strange, especially after feeling so ill.”

Shaking the doctor’s hand Sherlock nodded, and pulled a chair closer to the side of the bed.

At first he was unsure about what to say to his unresponsive friend, after all this wasn’t really his area of expertise; he wasn’t the one with the good bedside manner.  After a few moments thought, he started to relate the details of the case he had worked on in South Africa, drawing verbal caricatures of the people involved.

By the end of his tale he had grown quite frustrated with his friends continued silence, and in a fit of pique added

“It seems I leave you alone for a few days, and you pull a stunt like this!  I mean, honestly John.  And you call me an attention seeker!”

 “Didn’t do it on purpose.” The voice was weak and hoarse. “Tried to get help, don’t remember …”

Sherlock stood and reached for the call button to alert the nurse, then looked down at his friend.

“I’m sorry...”

“What for, John? You can hardly be blamed for catching a virus.”

“I….you sounded angry.” John frowned as the nurse came in to check his stats.

She held a cup of water with a straw to his lips so that he could have a drink, then asked him a couple of questions which he answered without taking his eyes from his flatmate, and when she left the cubicle the two men continued to look at each other.

Sherlock worried at his lower lip with his teeth, a look of uncertainty on his pale features.

“I’m not angry, John,” he paused, trying to find the right words. “I was worried.”

John made a noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a cough.

“I bet you Googled complications of measles, didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s downcast eyes were answer enough.

“Yeah, and I’ll bet you had visions of meningitis, pneumonia, hepatitis, encephalitis,” he paused, coughed, and continued, “Bronchitis, Optic Neuritis…”

“Stop! Just…stop. Yes, I did Google it, and yes, I read all about those things.” Sitting back in the chair Sherlock rubbed his temples. “It just wasn’t right.  Of all the things that have happened to us, you nearly…sorry, I’m supposed to be trying to make you feel better.”

 This time John did laugh.

“Not your area, Sherlock.” He watched his friend for a moment or two, then added “I’m not going to be home for a little while, why don’t you head off to Bart’s and badger Molly for some body parts to play with?  You can come back and see me later.”

It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and Sherlock brightened a little.

“Get some rest John, I’ll come back this evening.”

John’s eyelids drooped, and he hummed in agreement.  Sherlock started to walk away, then as a thought occurred to him turned back.

“John?”

The man in the bed looked up at him questioningly.

“About the cultures in the bathroom – how did you know?”

John just rolled his eyes.

 

 

 

 


	4. Off the Record

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to MapleleafCameo for choosing this latest method of nearly killing John Watson...

As much as he loved running around the streets of London, hot on the heels of Sherlock’s latest criminal/victim, John Watson appreciated the few occasions when he was asked to make use of his research skills and track down obscure information.  He would never admit it, but sometime he just needed a break.

Today was one of those days, and he was grateful for the peace and quiet of Kew’s National Records Archive.  Sherlock needed confirmation of the killer’s connection to the family of his victim – it was the last piece of the puzzle.

In the unusually hot weather he was grateful too for the constant temperature, maintained by air conditioning to protect the integrity of the records, and John settled down to work in comfort.

Several hours, and many copied documents later, he had the proof that Sherlock and Lestrade required to make the charges stick, and he headed back to Baker Street.

xXx

_A week later….._

“You alright mate?” Greg Lestrade dumped a pint down in front of John, sitting opposite him and taking an appreciative sip of his own beer. “You look like shite!”

“Thanks.” John grinned back. “To paraphrase Monty Python – I’m sick and tired of being told I’m sick and tired.”

Greg laughed out loud at that, leaning forward and slapping john on the shoulder.

“You need a break away from your maniac flatmate – thought of taking a holiday?”

“Some days I think of nothing else.” Taking a long pull on his beer, John sat back and repressed a shiver. “To be honest, I’m just tired.  These last two cases have kept his majesty pacing the floor at all hours, and the pair of us running around like lunatics when most decent people are asleep in their beds.”

Both men settled into a companionable silence, each mulling over the criminal fraternity’s lack of consideration and their awful sense of timing.

By the end of the evening, John was glad to scramble into a cab and head home.  Usually his evenings at the pub with Greg were a welcome change of scene, but tonight he’d found it difficult to work up the enthusiasm.  Trudging slowly up the stairs to the flat, he was glad to see Sherlock asleep on the couch, and gratefully made his way up to his own room, planning to rest his aching muscles with a long, luxurious sleep.

xXx

Cracking his eyes open, John blinked blearily at the clock beside his bed. For several moments he was confused, it was two o’clock, but there was bright daylight streaming through a gap in the curtains.  Smothering a cough, he dragged himself out from under the warm covers, shivering violently as he pulled his dressing gown on and wandered downstairs.

“You were coughing.” Sherlock didn’t deign to look up from his microscope as his flatmate shuffled around the kitchen, slowly pulling together the makings of a cup of tea.

“Sorry – what?” John croaked turning to stare at the top of his friend’s curly head, watching as slender fingers adjusted the focus of his lens.

“Coughing, John.  You were coughing in your sleep.”

“Was I?  Sorry – I was so tired I suppose it just didn’t wake me.”

“No, it woke me instead.”  The grey/blue eyes flicked up and took in the other man’s dishevelled state.  “You, it seems, were able to sleep most of the day away.  Do you intend getting dressed?  Or will you just sit around like that until you go back to bed?”

“Pot to kettle – over.” John responded as sarcastically as he could, fighting to keep a bout of coughing at bay as he turned away to finish making tea.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock sat up, affronted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means…”

Several dry coughs interrupted John’s reply, and Sherlock drummed his fingers with ill-concealed impatience until he could continue.

“It means, considering you spend most of your down time between cases in much the same state, that’s rather rich coming from you!” And slamming a cup of tea down in front of the younger man John took his drink upstairs.

John didn’t recall falling back to sleep, but his flatmate bursting through his bedroom door some hours later woke him with a start, causing the throbbing behind his eyes to increase a hundredfold.

“John!  Come on John, you can’t lie around here all day.  Lestrade wants us – he has a locked room suicide that couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted, quickly get dressed, we have to go”

“But…” sitting up he scrubbed a hand over his face, “Sherlock, I need to shower….”

“Later, come _on_!” Flinging John’s coat at him Sherlock turned on his heel, adding as he left the room “Downstairs in five minutes John, I need you’re medical expertise.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was pacing frantically as John came downstairs wrapped up in several layers of warm clothing despite the unseasonably warm spring weather.

“Must just be overtired” He said in response to his friend’s questioning look. “Let me just grab some Paracetamol for this headache and we can be on our way.” But he was speaking to thin air, as Sherlock was already on his way downstairs.  Grabbing the bottle of pills he hurried after him, dry-swallowing two of them once he was in the cab and speeding towards the latest crime scene.

xXx

Greg stood to one side of the room with John, watching as Sherlock crouched and examined the body. Part of his attention was on the man shivering beside him, but he decided that as a doctor John was quite capable of looking after himself, and would very likely not appreciate any interference.

“John, what do you think?” At last Sherlock was finished with the cadaver, stepping back to give his friend some room. 

Taking his time, John looked closely at the man lying in the middle of the empty room. With gentle fingers he pried open the eyelids, shining his torch into the dead eyes that stared back at him, then moved down to the neck and throat.

“Some form of strangulation.” He said finally. “The Hyoid bone is broken, and although I can’t be certain under these conditions, I’d say with closer examination you’ll find petechial haemorrhaging in and around the eyes.”

“And, of course, you’ll want to know how he could possibly have….” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as John started coughing violently, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth as he staggered away from the victim and out through the open door.  The sudden cessation of coughing was accompanied seconds later with a dull thud and a squeal of surprise from one of the waiting forensic officers.

Moving as one, Greg and Sherlock dashed out of the room to find John lying unconscious on the floor, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, the crumpled cloth in his hand stained with bloody mucus.

xXx

Sherlock sat silently in the waiting room, staring at the floor.  In the ambulance, John had woken briefly, confused and struggling for breath; he hadn’t even recognised that his friend was sitting in the vehicle next to him.

As they took John into a treatment room, a nurse took the consulting detective to one side and started asking him questions.  Biting down his irritation he answered as best he could, giving John’s details, citing himself as next of kin, knowing how strained his relationship with his sister had been of late – Mycroft could always bring her here If it became necessary later.

Surprisingly, the nurse was less perturbed at his mention – when asked about John’s movements over the previous two weeks – of crime scenes and dead bodies, than she was at his visit to the archives at Kew. Tutting loudly she excused herself and hurried away, leaving the consulting detective sitting alone.

He made several fruitless journeys to the nurse’s station to enquire about his friend, but each time was told he could either wait until the doctor was ready to see him, or come back later.  And standing trying to see into the treatment room was a waste of time too – the nurses had simply closed the curtains across the windows, shutting him out.

When at last the consultant entered the room, Sherlock had to restrain himself from grasping the man by the lapels of his white coat and shaking him.  Instead he stood and waited for him to speak.

“Mr Holmes, I’m sorry you have been kept waiting.  I understand you are his next of kin?”

Sherlock nodded, ignoring the implication in the other man’s tone.

“Well, I can tell you he has pneumonia, and we think it may be related to an outbreak of Legionella at the records office. We’re just waiting for blood results, but in the meantime we’re treating it as such.  Dr Watson will be moved to Intensive Care, where he’ll be intubated to assist his breathing, and we’ll give him intravenous fluids and antibiotics”

“Can I see him?”

“Once he’s settled, yes.” The consultant looked hard at the young man. “As a doctor, I’m surprised he didn’t recognise the symptoms, however the nurse tells me he’s spent the last couple of weeks following you around crime scenes – you’re that consulting detective aren’t you?”

“Yes, but what…”

“One of my staff worked with Dr Watson when he covered several shifts at St Mary’s A&E, she tells me his ‘friend’ Sherlock Holmes would drag him off at all hours to chase murderers and what have you! What I am trying to tell you Mr Holmes, is that he was not only more susceptible because he was tired, but he was unable to recognise the symptoms in himself for the same reason.”

“So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

The pout in the younger man’s voice made the consultant smile.

“Not unless you deliberately introduced   Legionella Pneumophila into the climate control systems at the archives – no, I’m just saying that if he wasn’t so run down in the first place he would have sought help before it became this bad.” He reached across and grasped Sherlock’s arm, leading him towards the door. “Come, I’ll take you to him now.”

xXx

Greg walked in to the ICU ward the next afternoon to find Sherlock sitting, staring at the thin figure in the bed, watching the chest rise and fall with the assistance of the ventilator. 

His eyes taking in the multiple IV’s and monitors, Lestrade crossed to stand behind the younger man, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“I heard he has pneumonia.”

“Legionnaires disease, pneumonia is a complication of it, and it’s all my fault.”

“Now hang on, “Greg ejaculated, pulling up a chair beside him and forcing Sherlock to look at him. “Of course it’s not your fault you imbecile, it was just sheer bad luck that John was at Kew before the outbreak was notified.”

“He was tired – he couldn’t fight it, didn’t recognise it,” Sherlock snarled, pushing the other man’s hand from his shoulder.

“And he’s a grown man, Sherlock!  He is perfectly capable of saying no.  It’s not as if you force him to follow you around.”

“Don’t I?” Suddenly all the fight had gone out of him, and he looked back at John. “Yesterday he slept in until mid-afternoon, he barely spent five minutes downstairs before he went back to bed.  I woke him up, hurried him out of the house, I didn’t give him a chance to say no.”

Slowly, he reached out a hand and laid it on his friend’s arm.

“You weren’t there, Lestrade.  All I did was complain to him that he’d woken me up with his coughing, I never thought….didn’t realise…”

“Of course you didn’t!  Neither did I when I told him how awful he looked in the pub the other night – he just brushed it off with a joke, you know, typical John.” Greg gave a wry smile.

Any response Sherlock may have made died on his tongue as a nurse entered the curtained cubicle and picked up John’s chart.  Her pointed look at Sherlock’s hand on John’s arm had no effect on the consulting detective, and he watched in silence as she worked.

“Listen mate, I need to get back to work – keep me up to speed on his condition, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, not really concentrating on the Detective Inspector’s words, not noticing when he walked away.  The ICU, its nurses, and all the machinery faded into the background as he stared at the clear plastic ventilation tube that disappeared down John’s throat, pumping air into his friend’s lungs, keeping him alive.

Despite his best intentions, Sherlock fell asleep in the chair at John’s bedside, and despite the regulations the senior staff nurse didn’t have the heart to wake him and make him leave, letting him wake naturally the next morning to the altered sounds of the cardiac monitor.

Abruptly sitting up, he blinked rapidly and his eyes sought out his friend.  John’s breathing was stronger now, deeper and somehow less restricted. From behind him a soft voice spoke.

“We’ve reduced the medication that was keeping him asleep Mr Holmes, once he’s conscious we’ll be able to remove the ventilator.” The same nurse that had taken John’s details was smiling down at the still sleepy man in the chair. “We’ll need to ask you to leave while we do that, but you’ll be able to come back in and sit with him afterwards.”

xXx

His text sent to Lestrade, Sherlock sat in the cafeteria trying not to let his taste-buds revolt at the disgusting excuse for coffee that the staff had just sold him. No amount of sugar would improve the flavour he thought, and until now he would have stated categorically that it was impossible to ‘ruin’ black coffee.  He was busily debating this phenomena with himself, when the nurse attracted his attention from the doorway.

“He’s asking to see you, Mr Holmes.” She said as he crossed the room towards her. “You know your way, don’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice, he fairly sprinted towards the ICU and his friend.

“John!” he gasped breathlessly, almost skidding to a halt at the foot of the bed and earning himself a hissed admonition from the duty nurses.

“Sorry Sherlock, I didn’t mean to drop out on you like that.” John offered a weak smile.

“So I should think!” Sherlock struggled to keep his voice even. “That was truly inconsiderate of you to collapse at a crime scene, you could have contaminated the evidence.”

“And made it impossible for you to find the killer.”

“Exactly.  More to the point you could have died…” a slight twinkle glinted in the younger man’s eyes. “And tell me, where would I find another consulting doctor who would be willing to put up with me?”

At the nurse’s station at the far end of the Intensive Care Unit, John and Sherlock’s shouts of laughter caused disapproving eyebrows to raise, and heads to shake in resignation – the sooner they get them off the ward, the sooner they could get order back to the ward.


	5. Hidden Danger

“You’re not helping here, John” Sherlock hissed as he tried to pick the lock on the office door.

“Maybe so, but breaking into the reptile centre of London Zoo is not my idea of sensible investigating.”

With a sharp twist of his wrist, the consulting detective opened the lock, and was stepping through the door, not bothering to check that his friend was following.

With a roll of his eyes John stepped through too, easing the door shut.

“What are we looking for exactly?” he asked as he watched Sherlock rifling through the desk drawers.

“Anything that ties Jamieson to the victims.” The reply came on a frustrated huff of breath. “There _must_ be something here. Check the filing cabinet.”

He flung a set of keys which John caught with one hand as he turned to the nearest cabinet.

Their search was fruitless.  There appeared to be nothing to link the Director of Herpetology to the three dead men, other than access to venom extracted from some of the world’s deadliest reptiles.

Sherlock stepped into the middle of the room and looked around, an unsatisfied scowl on his face. He was about to give up and rethink his strategy when he spotted it - a bolted wooden door almost hidden in the corner of the room.

“Over here John” He pulled back the bolts and entered the room, his colleague close on his heels. 

They found themselves in what appeared to be a small laboratory, the type some veterinary surgeries have for testing blood and tissue samples from sick animals.

Several sloughed skins lay on the bench of the otherwise tidy room, and after a cursory look at them the two men methodically started working their way through the cupboards and drawers.

It didn’t take long to find what they were looking for, but it triggered a calamitous event.

“John! I think this is it!”

John had been in the act of pulling out a deep drawer in the furthest corner of the room.  As he turned to look at the papers in his friend’s hand, without thinking he continued to open the drawer.  An angry hiss was all the warning he got, as a huge snake, roused suddenly from sleep, stuck out at him, its fangs sinking through his jacket and into the flesh of his upper arm.

“Shit!” he yelped, leaping away as the massive cream and brown head pulled back. “Fuck Sherlock, I’ve been…”

“Bitten, yes I saw.” Sherlock had put down the papers he was holding, and whipped out his phone, taking a picture of the snake before kicking the drawer shut.

John having yanked his jacket off was now searching through the fridge for antivenom but the shelves contained nothing but labelled blood samples and half a bottle of milk. In the background he could hear the other man on the phone, but he could barely make out what was being said over the clamouring of thoughts rushing around his head.

As he slumped into a nearby chair he closed his eyes and tried to dredge up everything he had learned in the RAMC about the treatment of snakebites, but the swollen and painful bite on his arm was making it difficult to concentrate. A soft touch on his uninjured arm brought his head jerking upwards and his eyes open.

“Lestrade’s getting an ambulance here as soon as possible.  What do you need?” Sherlock was crouched in front of the chair, looking worriedly at his friend.

“Anthivemom.” John frowned, the word didn’t sound right. He tried again. “Anthi..”

“Antivenom yes, anything else?”

Blue eyes stared helplessly into grey, and Sherlock saw fear in them. He watched as John tried to swallow, looking almost like a dental patient after a local anaesthetic.

“Open your mouth.” He ordered sharply.  John did so. “Your tongue’s swelling. What should I do? John?”

The blond head drooped forwards, falling onto Sherlocks shoulder.  As the young man wondered what he should do he felt convulsions start to shake through John’s body, and he clutched at him, trying both to avoid hurting his swollen arm and prevent him from falling from the chair.

Blood spurted from John’s mouth as his teeth clamped down on his tongue, and as he started to lose consciousness all Sherlock could do was ease him to the floor.

“What the…”

Sherlock looked up to see Lestrade staring down at him and John, a look of horror on his face.

“Ambulance?”

“Right behind me. Bloody hell Sherlock, how poisonous is this….”

“Gaboon Viper.” Sherlock thrust his phone into Greg’s hand, and nodded his head towards a chart on the wall, showing all the poisonous reptiles currently in the zoo. “Very.”

A clattering sound accompanied the arrival of paramedics. Lestrade dragged Sherlock out of the way as the paramedics started to assess John.

Into the confusion walked a young man, looking a bit like a refugee from the sixties with his unkempt hair and beard, tattered flared jeans and army surplus jacket.

“I’m Peter, senior assistant in the Reptile Department.” He said, looking around the inquisitive faces staring back at him. “I got a call for antivenom? It’s stored in the backroom behind the snake tanks.”

He held out a rectangular polystyrene box, offering it to the paramedics.

“There are five doses in there. One should be administered straight away, but take the others in case you need them.” Looking at Sherlock he asked “Where was your friend when he got bitten?  Not in here, but I couldn’t see…”

“It was in here.” Sherlock snapped, waving at the units behind him. “John opened that drawer and it was inside.”

The assistant blanched, his eyes widening.

“I need to catch it before it causes any more damage.”

“Yeah, but not until we are safely out of the way.  And you might want to call in one of your colleagues, just to be safe.” Greg pointed out as he watched John being wheeled out on the stretcher. With a nod to the young man he followed it, Sherlock at his side.

xXx

John looked small and pale, lying in the hospital bed with oxygen being pumped into him through a nasal cannula, and sticky pads littering his chest, monitoring his vital signs.  A drip feeding antibiotics through a cannula in the back of his hand would prevent any infection from the bite, while a second IV was set up to introduce thromboplastin, a coagulation agent to counteract the effects of the venom and prevent internal bleeding.

Sherlock stood unmoving as the doctor explained John’s condition and the treatment he was being given.

“It was fortunate you were with him when he was bitten.  He should be grateful – doubly so, because your swift actions not only identified the source and type of poison, but also sourced the antivenom.”

“Why is he unconscious still?” It was as if Sherlock hadn’t heard the praise the doctor was offering him, his mind was both centres on his friend and yet, he was working out where their perpetrator might have gone to ground – the story of John’s snakebite had made the ten o’clock news, with the result that Jamieson would have been forewarned that the police were onto him, and the added nuisance of having the press lurking outside the hospital.

The doctor looked thoughtful.

“We’ve not sedated him.  We had to administer a further two doses of the antivenom in addition to the one given to him by the paramedics, so I’d like him to wake in his own time and meanwhile we’ll continue to monitor him.”

Sherlock nodded, then looked down at the papers he had grabbed from the veterinary Lab as he and Lestrade were leaving.

“I need to catch the man responsible for this.”

“But surely it was an accident?”

“In a sense, but it wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t been chasing a killer.” With a final glance around the room, and then back at John, Sherlock turned to leave. “Ring me if there’s any change.” He called over his shoulder as he stalked out.

xXx

Standing on the corner of a quiet London street in the half-light of dawn, Sherlock watched the alleyway leading to the back gardens of a row of terraced houses.

At the front of the house, Lestrade and his team hammered on the door, shouted a warning and proceeded to break the door down.  As the officers finally entered the house, a figure hurried furtively out of the alleyway.

Jamieson was so intent on checking behind him to see if the police were on his tail, that he barely had time to register surprise when he turned back and found himself on the receiving end of a punishing right hook from the consulting detective.

By the time Lestrade and Donovan reached him Sherlock was standing, fists clenched tightly at his side, glaring down at the unconscious herpetologist.

Donovan looked at him accusingly.

“Well, I only hit him once. Unfortunately I hit him too hard.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow in enquiry.

“I didn’t mean to knock him out; I wanted the pleasure of punching his face to a pulp.” He stepped away from the prone figure. “And now I’ve caught your killer for you, I’m going back to the hospital.”

 xXx

John was looking blearily around the ward when Sherlock moved into his line of vision.

“Jesus, I must have been ill for you to look that worried.” John croaked softly.

“No, not worried John, it’s just that I didn’t manage to get any sleep last night – chasing murderers – tiring.”

“Right, that would have disturbed your beauty sleep.”

Grey eyes took in every aspect of the man in the bed, from the heavy dark circles under the dull blue eyes, to the waxy pallor of his cheeks.  The IV lines were gone, but the oxygen was still feeding his lungs.

“Doctor said you have to stay in for at least another couple of days, he said…” Sherlock’s voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and continued “he said you may relapse, so he wants to be sure of your recovery.”

“Oh poor Mrs Hudson.” John sighed, his eyes fluttering shut.

“What?”

One eye cracked open.

“Well, you’ll be bloody insufferable ‘til I get back.” There was a soft warmth and humour in John’s voice. “Try not to goad her into murdering you – she needs your share of the rent money.”


	6. Hole in One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to jack63kids, for choosing this latest way to nearly kill Dr John:)

Pain erupted through John’s chest as one of the would-be burglars lashed out with a wooden fence post.  The doctor in him realised he was in trouble when he felt the tearing sensation as the young delinquent pulled his weapon back for another swing, and John’s next exhalation brought blood bubbling to his lips.

The boy stared in horror, first at his victim, and then at the wooden post now hanging loosely in his hand. A long nail protruded from it, stained bright red with John’s blood.

“I…I’m sorry.” He stammered, watching the blood froth around John’s lips as he coughed.

“Ambulance…” the injured man wheezed, but the youth and his partner in crime were already running full pelt from the crime scene as John, struggling for breath, collapsed slowly to the ground.

xXx

Glancing at the clock, Sherlock realised his flatmate should have been back by now. After all, he had only gone down to the bank to arrange for a new card – the ATM having swallowed his last one. Still pondering this, he wondered too what had drawn him out of his mind palace so abruptly.

The soft chime of his mobile text alert had him reaching for the device, and a brief check showed he had missed two calls – both from Lestrade.  He opened the text.

_‘Please ring me – urgently. GL’_

Rolling his eyes he dialled the number, it was answered on the first ring.

“Sherlock.” Greg’s voice was harsh. “Where the hell are you?”

“Good afternoon Lestrade. And what has got you so worked up that you have to yell at me?”

“I’m at Dr Sawyer’s surgery – John’s here, we’re waiting for an ambulance.”

Sherlock sat up abruptly.

“Who’s waiting for an ambulance? Why?”

“John was found bleeding and unconscious, near the back entrance to the pharmacy next door. It looks very much like he interrupted a burglary.” Greg drew a deep breath. “Sarah says his left lung’s been punctured, and the right may have been compromised by the bleeding. She’s treated him, but he needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible.”

Pulling on his coat and scarf as he listened, Sherlock hurtled down the stairs and out of the door.

“Which hospital?” he snapped, hailing a taxi.

“Nearest is St Mary’s. Sarah….” But he didn’t get to finish his sentence, and he stared at his now silent phone.

Sarah placed a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to look at her.

“John’s conscious – try not to let him talk too much.” She led the way to her consulting room.

John lay on the examination table, his head and shoulders slightly raised. His coat and shirt were open, and his t-shirt had been cut open to reveal the wound.  Dr Sawyer had covered it with an occlusive dressing, sealed on three sides to allow air to escape, but not re-enter the chest cavity.

“Ambulance is on its way mate, and I’ve let Sherlock know what happened.”

Greg looked down at his friend, whose breaths were coming fast and shallow, as if trying to prevent the pain from increasing.

“Two of them…” he gasped. “Only kids.”

“Later, I can take your statement later.”

John shook his head.

“Frightened…”

“There’s no need to be frightened, John.” Sarah squeezed his hand. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

“Not…me…”

It was painful for them to listen to the blond doctor’s struggle to make himself understood.

“The kid….might do something….stupid.”

Sarah muttered something about already having done something stupid, but John had slipped back into unconsciousness.

xXx

Sherlock sat staring at his friend, sleeping peacefully in his hospital bed. He ignored the sound of his brother’s approach, until that man stood opposite him on the other side of John’s bed.

“He still sleeps then?”

“Oh, well observed Mycroft.”

Mycroft sniffed loftily.

“What will you do now?”

“Once he wakes up, I’ll get a description of the criminals…”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Mycroft smirked. “Hasn’t Lestrade been in contact?”

Sherlock frowned and looked up at him.

“Apparently John’s assailants were delivered to the Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard less than an hour ago – by your little friend Kallie and a group of her homeless friends.” He looked down at the man in the bed. “It would seem the good doctor is rather highly thought of by your scruffy band of vigilantes.”

With a sneer Sherlock turned away, looking idly out of the window,

“Goodbye, brother dear. Do try to take better care of your friend.” And on that note, Mycroft strolled away.

In the bed, John opened one eye.

“Has he gone?” His voice was soft, and a little breathless.

“John, for goodness sake can’t you stay out of trouble for five minutes?” There was no trace of disapproval on the younger man’s face, just a wry smile.

“Be honest Sherlock,” John huffed a soft laugh. “You’d be bored in no time!”

 


	7. Love Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is - the first Johnlock story in this series, so if you don't like Johnlock then I would suggest you read no further. Established relationship, but not graphic. Angsty...  
> Please note TRIGGER warning - Suicide attempt.

Most of their arguments were fast and furious, explosive, heated, but over quickly, and making up was always a bonus.

This one though, had been different.  John had spent Saturday evening in the pub with a number of old army friends, celebrating both their safe return, and the forthcoming nuptials of one of their number.

Happily relaxed with a couple of pints inside him, John had confessed his relationship with Sherlock, confident that his friends would understand.  And they had understood – displaying their approval by picking him up and almost bear-hugging him to death.

Paul Fischer grabbed him, placing a hand on each side of his face, and pulled him in for a sloppy, drunken kiss, cheered on by his comrades in arms.  John barely flinched, knowing the guys would make sure that Paul was reminded of his actions at every opportunity – that made the joke worth-while.

Nobody had noticed the tall, curly haired young man, watching their antics from the other bar. As he saw the blond doctor being thoroughly kissed he put his half empty glass down, and headed for the door – he didn’t see the way the other man swiped at his lips with his sleeve, as if to wipe away something distasteful.

xXx

Sherlock was sitting in his chair when John returned, relatively sober but very tired.  He knew something was wrong from the minute he walked through the door.

“Sherlock?  It’s nearly 2am; you’ve not been sitting there all this time waiting for me have you?” He hung his jacket up and slumped onto the couch. “What’s happened?”

He hadn’t seen it coming. All at once Sherlock’s temper, usually coldly controlled, erupted into a mass of vitriolic accusation and rage.

John tried valiantly to stem the flow of hurt and hurtful words, but the alcohol he had consumed slowed his already tired brain. By the time he had formed any kind of coherent explanation, Sherlock was pulling his coat and scarf on, and heading for the door.

“Don’t bother to wait up for me; I don’t know if I’ll be back.”

“Wait Sherlock, please…” John reached out to grasp his arm. “Let me explain…”

“I don’t want to hear your lies and excuses!” Wrenching away, Sherlock walked out of the flat.

xXx

Determined not to go to his brother, Sherlock hailed a taxi and headed to St Bart’s. His many years spent in the laboratories had made the place as familiar as 221B, and he slipped in unnoticed by the night staff.

Molly had kindly allocated him cupboard space, where he could store on-going studies such as his soil comparisons, and he pulled these out now to settle into the soothing routine of the Work – closing his mind to the man he left behind at the flat.

More than an hour had passed when the first text arrived.

_‘Come home ‘Lock, let me explain – JW’_

He glanced at the message, and then returned his attention to the slides.

Fifteen minutes later another one arrived.

_‘I’m sorry – JW’_

With a grunt of indifference he pushed his phone further away.

When a third text message arrived shortly afterwards he picked up the phone and read it.

_‘I love you – JW’_

Rolling his eyes he finally decided to turn the phone off, impatient with all the interruptions.

As ever, the research aspect of his work had a calming effect on Sherlock’s mind, and as he examined slides and compared samples he started to regret not giving John the chance to explain – after all, he’d been open about where he was going, who he was meeting, and he’d even invited Sherlock to join them. He’d declined of course, but something made him curious, and so he had gone along to their meeting place.

With hindsight he realised he should have just joined them – John would have welcomed him, as he always did, with a hug and a ready smile – but instead he chose to watch from the shadows. Well, he berated himself silently, in that case he got what he deserved.

Straightening up in his chair, reached for his mobile, switching it back on, intending to send a text, but immediately the alert sounded. John. With a smile he opened it, but as he read his smile faded.

_‘Forgive me, ‘Lock. I love you. Always. – JW’_

Frantically, Sherlock dialled John’s number, swearing under his breath as it went straight to voicemail. He’d turned it off.

Not bothering to put his work away he dashed for the door, running down the corridor and out to the road, looking worriedly around for a taxi.  As luck would have it one was sitting on a nearby rank, and he sprinted across and jumped in, yelling the address as he sat back and pulled his phone out once more.

John’s text had been sent over half an hour earlier, and Sherlock dithered over whether or not to call an ambulance.  He’d look stupid if John had just simply given up asking forgiveness and gone to bed, but something about that last text had ice forming in the pit of his stomach.

Fortunately, the traffic at 5am was light. Throwing money at the cabbie, he let himself into the house and ran up the stairs to the flat. Inside it was cold and dark, and too quiet.

Heading straight for their bedroom he pushed the door open, and his worst fears were realised. John lay still fully clothed, sprawled face down across the bed, his face pressed into Sherlock’s pillow, tear tracks staining his cheeks, and dampening the pillowcase.

As he dialled 999, Sherlock crossed to the bed, his eyes taking in everything about the room. An empty pill bottle sat the bedside table, next to an empty glass.  He demanded an ambulance, gave the address, and turned his attention to the man on the bed.

“John! Wake up John” he pulled the limp body into his arms, his fingers searching for, and finding a pulse, weak and quivering, but thankfully there. “John please, I need to know how many of these pills you’ve taken.”

John was floundering on the edge of consciousness, his head flopping limply against the other man’s arm, his lips moving soundlessly, his eyelids not quite closed but his eyes unseeing. Sherlock tightened his hold, dropping his head to press his cheek against Johns, trying to hear his muttered words.

Looking closely at the label on the bottle, his heart sunk as he realised that John had swallowed a whole newly filled prescription of the potent painkillers that he kept for when his shoulder was really painful.

Sherlock didn’t know how long he sat, holding his John, begging him to stay with him, not to leave him alone. It was only when he felt firm but gentle hands pulling John from his hold that he realised the paramedics had arrived. 

Hot on their heels came Mycroft, alerted by his security that an ambulance had been despatched to his brother’s address.

In a blur of activity, John was whisked out of the building and in to the waiting vehicle. Sherlock travelled with him, but once they reached the hospital, and the doors closed on the treatment room, he was left to collapse in his brother’s arms, shell-shocked and terrified.

Easing his brother into a chair in the family waiting room, Mycroft sat opposite and peered into his paler than usual face.

“Why?”

“We had an argument. It’s all my fault.” Sherlock’s voice was shaky, full of apprehension.

“But you’ve argued before, this isn’t John’s usual reaction.”

“No, but I’ve never walked out on him before, after accusing him of…” his voice broke, as did the final threads of his self-control, and he curled himself into a ball on the chair and sobbed.

Mycroft didn’t have a clue how to comfort his brother, so he sat, silently watching as the heart that no one believed existed shattered.

xXx

The atmosphere in the family room was heavy. Sherlock was quiet now, his red-rimmed eyes staring at the door that had remained stubbornly closed for the last forty-five minutes, and Mycroft was watching his brother, quietly hoping that John would make it this time, dreading his brother’s reaction if he didn’t.

When the doctor finally entered, Sherlock shot out of his chair and grasped the man by his arms.

“Is he alive?” his eyes stared hard at the doctor, trying to read the information in his face. “Please, tell me.”

“He’s very poorly, but we hope that no permanent damage has been done.” The doctor eased himself out of the brutal grip, and stepped back. “Although he had alcohol in his blood, he had taken the pills with water – had he not, I don’t think he would be with us now”

“Can I see him?”

“You can see him in the treatment room, before we take him up to the ward. Visiting times…”

“John Watson is to have a private room.” Mycroft stepped  in. “And my brother, his partner, will stay there with him.”  He pulled out his phone and made a swift call, waiting only until the arrangements had been confirmed, then followed the two men to where John lay sleeping.

xXx

It was late in the afternoon when Sherlock, his head resting on the bed beside John’s hand, felt the other man begin to stir.

He stood and leaned over, so that he could be the first thing John would see when he opened his eyes.

As the blue eyes fluttered open, the younger man struggled to prevent himself from dragging the other man into his arms. He watched as discomfort flickered across John’s face when he swallowed, and hearing his name being croaked, he reached over to the table and poured a drink of water, gently lifting John’s shoulders and holding the glass to his lips.

“They had to pump your stomach.” Sherlock told him. “You tried to commit suicide John, why?”

“You thought…I wanted….you said you wouldn’t be back….” John stopped, as if realising he was making things more confusing. He sighed and looked up into Sherlock’s face. “I didn’t want to be alone again. You didn’t return my texts. I thought you were gone.”

The noise that tore itself from Sherlock’s lips was a cross between a cry of anguish and a moan of terror, and he let his forehead rest against John’s.

“Never.”  He said vehemently. “I’ll never leave you alone.” 

They shared a soft kiss.

“If you ever do that again,” he added, “know that I’ll follow you, and wherever you end up, heaven or hell, I’ll be right behind you. I promise, you won’t lose me that easily.”


	8. A Model Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks go to MrsPencil for choosing the method of nearly killing John in this chapter :D

 It was reckless, John knew it, but still he followed Sherlock as they dashed full pelt along Cringle Street and through a gate leading into the open ground beside Battersea Power Station.

Sherlock was a few yards ahead as he disappeared around the side of an old rusty container, his eyes on the receding figure, and he failed to spot the accomplice lying in wait with a lump of wood in his hand.  As he approached John heard the cry, and the dull thud as his friend hit the floor, and rounding the corner he saw the dark shape of the lanky detective sprawled on the floor.

“Shit!” John skidded to a halt and sunk to one knee beside the consulting detective, his hand reaching to feel for a pulse as his eyes scanned the area.   From behind him came the sound of a safety catch being taken off a pistol, and in front of him the man they had been chasing turned and stood, hands in pockets, smirking.

“Get up, Dr Watson.”  Jake Harley didn’t even sound breathless as he strolled back towards the kneeling man.  When John continued to seek out a pulse, and then check Sherlock’s head for injury.

“I said _get up_!”

“When I’m sure you haven’t hurt him too badly.” John’s brain was racing around the possible ways of getting them out of this mess, but when Harley also pulled a gun from his pocket the doctor had to swallow a frustrated groan.

“Now, I will ask you just once more, and if you insist on staying on the floor beside Mr Holmes, then you can stay there and watch my friend here shoot him in the head.  Get up and move away from him, Dr Watson.”

Slowly, very slowly he rose to his feet.  Harley moved closer, his arm outstretched, until the barrel of his gun was pressed hard into the short man’s forehead, pressing a circular indentation into his skin.

“Freddie, take his gun.”

“Gun?  He’s got a gun?”  The accomplice, Freddie, sounded barely old enough to be out of school.

Jake Harley almost growled his frustration.

“Of course he’s got a gun, he’s a soldier.”

“But you called him doctor…” nonetheless Freddie stepped up behind John, and gripping his own gun tightly in his right hand ran his left over the other man in a more intimate fashion than was required, smirking as he flinched, and finally pulling the gun from his waistband.

“Now, Dr Watson, you will come with us. Don’t worry about Mr Holmes; he’ll have a headache when he wakes up, possibly a mild concussion. We’ll fetch him in a bit.”

Trailing along behind his captor, John decided that it couldn’t hurt to ask the question that had been on his mind throughout the entire case.

“How did you do it?  I mean, your empire is built on toys, model trains and all the accoutrements that train enthusiasts would want, how does that fit with selling contaminated heroin?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll work it out Dr Watson, but just to help you along, I’ll introduce you to the contaminant – welcome to my safe storage facility.” With a small bow Harley gestured to the dilapidated shell of the old power station, and then led the way through the ruined inner structure.

Ducking low under fallen and lopsided metal joists, they walked past several signs warning of dangerous structures and falling masonry, but on crossing the threshold to what appeared to be an old furnace driven boilers room.

A lot of the original ironwork was still in place, but over to one side, kept dry and secure in the shelter of old machinery, was the innocent looking poison that had taken the lives of a dozen or more junkies in the last fortnight.

xXx

Consciousness came back slowly to Sherlock, and it was a consciousness filled with pain, discomfort, and disorientation.

His neck felt stiff, and the back of his head throbbed.  His arms were twisted, stretched out on either side of his body, and tied….no, wait.  Not tied. He turned his head slowly, in deference to the Timpani marching band playing inside his skull, and for a moment thought he must be hallucinating.

Thick bands of solid white, resembling concrete handcuffs, held each wrist securely to a solid handrail.  Sherlock tried to pull free and immediately regretted it, the twist on his arms preventing him putting any kind of power into his movement, to say nothing of the pain it caused in his shoulder joints.

“Don’t struggle.”

John’s voice sounded loud in the echoing silence, and Sherlock turned his head towards the sound.

“No point Sherlock, those ‘cuffs’ are Plaster of Paris.”

Squinting against blurred vision and the nausea that came with mild concussion, Sherlock noted the split lip and bruise that darkened his friend’s temple.  John had been captured conscious then, and had to be subdued before they could bind him too, with plaster handcuffs.

“How?”

“How what?  How did they get you?  You ran around a corner and they smacked you with a lump of four by two.”

“No you fool the Plaster of Paris.” He cringed as his own voice hurt his head.

“Well, you may be surprised to know that model railway enthusiasts use Plaster of Paris bandage to make landscapes for their trains to run through – the very same bandages we use in hospitals to set broken limbs.” He tilted his head towards the boxes stacked again the wall. “Except that the boxes over there, the ones marked for trade only, aren’t PP bandage at all.”

“Are they not? How can you tell?”

“I can’t.” John allowed himself a grin. “But poor Freddie nearly had his head bitten off when he tried to use the contents of one of them to restrain you.”

“And who’s ‘poor Freddie’?”

“He’s the idiot that hit you – I imagine either your brother or Lestrade will give him hell, one way or another.”

Sherlock ignored John’s flippant remark, thinking past the fog still lingering at the edges of his mind.

“Of course!  That must be how they managed to move the heroin about without attracting attention.” The consulting detective’s eyes widened. “And how the contaminant was introduced. Oh, I see you missed it John, but it’s really quite obvious.”

“Of course it is.” John sighed.

“The bandage is impregnated with Plaster of Paris, right?” he watched as John nodded an affirmative. “Heroin won’t bind so easily with the bandage, but mixed with the plaster…”

“Jesus!  No wonder it killed them!”

“So, we know who, we know how.  All we need is a way to remove these restraints…”

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes.  I’m afraid that you’ll need a saw to remove those.”  Neither man had heard Jake Harley return and now he stood, looking down on them, gloating. “And you won’t have a chance to tell Detective Inspector Lestrade about your theories – which are quite correct, by the way – because by the time he finds you we’ll be miles away. You, of course, will be dead.”

Nothing would have induced Sherlock to give away how concerned he was at this point.  His short, cryptic text to Lestrade had been designed to bring him to this place, but at a point sometime after he and John had wrapped the case up and incapacitated the deadly dealer – being knocked out hadn’t been a part of his plan, and he had no idea how long he had been unconscious.

He stared up at their captor.

“So, what’s it to be then?  Death by starvation?  Hypothermia?  Or do you plan to give us a free hit of your heroin?”

The smile that lit Harley face was truly chilling.

“That would be far too simple!  Oh Mr Holmes, you have no imagination,” He glanced at John, saw the blood drain from his face, and let his smile grow wider. “It would appear though that Dr Watson has worked it out.

Sherlock looked across at John, but he was staring at Harley’s accomplice Freddie, who had entered the room carrying a bucket of water and several rolls of Plaster of Paris bandage.

“No.” John’s voice cracked, and he shook his head in horror. “Jesus no, please no….”

It was like a litany; over and over John repeated his words while he watched, terrified, as Freddie took the cellophane wrapping off one of the bandages, and soaked it in the water.

“Leave him alone!” Sherlock yelled.

John struggled to pull away as the young man started to wrap the bandage, first around his head from chin to crown, effectively cutting off his screams of terror, and then gradually moving around his throat, working up his face until his mouth, his nose, and lastly his eyes were covered by the wet, claggy bandage.

“John!”

“It dries quite quickly Mr Holmes, and as it does, it tightens and hardens.”

In a futile attempt to help his friend Sherlock fought against his solid restraints, all the time his eyes were drawn to the sight of John’s chest, the rise and fall now a stuttering struggle to get air into his lungs.

Harley and Freddie stood back to admire their handiwork, not hearing the sound of running feet in the empty shell of the power station.

“In here!” In desperation Sherlock called out, hoping whoever was outside was not part of the dealer’s gang.

He was in luck – the door burst open and Sally flew in, followed by Greg Lestrade and several Detective Constables.

“John! Sally, help John!”

Sally Donovan glanced in surprise at the consulting detective, and then looked at John, hanging by his wrists from the bars to which he’d been bound, unmoving.

“Christ!” She moved towards him. “How….?”

“Unwrap it.” Sherlock fought to stay calm. “Quickly, before it dries.”

In the doorway, four burly detectives were dragging the two criminals away. Greg was moving forward to help Sally.

“Bolt cutters.” She said urgently over her shoulder as she pulled at the drying, cracking bandage.

Greg stopped, spun around and hurried out to his car.  He returned at a run, yelling into his phone for an ambulance, bolt cutters clasped in his hand.

“He’s not breathing.” Sally had removed the last of the sticky white killer. “Get his arms free, he needs CPR”

The cutters made short work of the solid plaster, and easing the limp figure down to the floor Greg left Sally clearing John’s airways and starting mouth to mouth resuscitation, while he moved across to release Sherlock.

“Keep still.” He commanded as the younger man struggled to get free. “These will snap your bones as easily as pushing a hot knife through butter.”

Sherlock stilled.  There was a sharp cracking sound, and the plaster cuffs crumbled away. 

The consulting detective ignored the pain in his arms and shoulders he staggered to John’s side, collapsing on the floor beside him.

“Can you give compressions?”

“What?”

“Can you do the chest compressions?” Sally asked again quietly, between breaths.

Blinking several times, Sherlock gave himself a shake and nodded.

“Thirty compressions” Sally sat back on her heels as Sherlock leant his full body weight forward onto his hands, his compressions deep and regular.

The two worked in tandem until, while the young man was into his fourth round of compressions Sally felt a pulse jump under her fingers.

“Stop.” She said firmly, keeping her fingers on John’s carotid pulse point, smiling as she felt the faint but steady beat. “Right, Let’s move him into recovery; just keep an eye on his breathing.”

Together they rolled him onto his side and sat with him until the ambulance arrived. 

John was starting to regain consciousness as the paramedics strapped him onto the stretcher. Following them out to the waiting vehicle, Sherlock put a hand on Sally’s arm, forcing her to turn towards him.  Her dark eyes looked up into his face, questioning.

“Thank you.” It was quietly said, yet heartfelt.  And while Sally stood with her mouth open in shock, the consulting detective jumped into the ambulance with his friend.

“Make the most of that.” Greg said with a grin as they stood and watched the blue lights fade into the distance. “It’s not likely to happen again in this lifetime!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I must acknowledge the idea for this particular method of attempted murder to the late great author Dick Francis, who introduced me to it in his book Proof.


	9. Gut Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This latest way to nearly kill John Watson was chosen by my good friend Lucy36.

The effect was the same as if he had stepped into an echo chamber, the sound of running feet echoing, yet under that was a harsh rasping sound that he couldn’t identify.

The floor beneath him was hard and damp, but not cold damp…. no, it was warm, almost welcoming, drawing him down towards it. 

And that feeling was reinforced when he tried to move, to get to his feet, his body felt tired and heavy – so very heavy – but there was pain too, although he seemed unable to investigate it, it was far too much effort to move.

His heavy lidded eyes were just beginning to close, when a warm hand gently patted his cheek, and he forced them open again, looking up at the blurry face that hovered above him.

“Doctor Watson, John, stay with us.”

He recognised the voice but couldn’t place where he knew it from.

“Sir!” the voice called – apparently not talking to him anymore. “He’s alive, but losing blood fast…”

“ _Oh! That’s why it’s warm_ ….”

“…how’s Sherlock?”

“Unconscious.  I can’t see any other injuries. Hopefully the worst he’ll have is concussion.” The disembodied voice seemed very distant, and as John tried to understand what the words meant, he found himself slipping further and further away from their concern and from painful reality.

xXx

John’s eyes flickered, and he squinted into the bright light that hung above him.  He groaned as he felt the pain again.

“He’s fighting the anaesthetic.”

A new voice, different, professional.  A hand holding a plastic mask moved in his peripheral vision, and as it was lowered over his nose and mouth he struggled, a half-hearted attempt to move his face away.

“Shhh John, be still. Surgeon’s nearly finished; we’re giving you a little more anaesthetic to make you comfortable.”

The professional voice, softer now, coaxing, and John let her put the mask over his face, succumbing to the gas, and the darkness that was invading his vision again.

xXx

Feeling returned first, a screaming, twisting, burning feeling deep in his gut.  Then hearing.  A constant beeping that seemed to be keeping time with his heartbeat.

His eyelids flickered, but the light was bright, too bright, and so he decided not to open his eyes just yet.

“John.  Take it easy mate.”

Another familiar voice, male this time, more than just familiar, a friend.

“Sherlock‘ll be back in a minute”

Vague memory, a need to protect….to protect…. he tried to struggle into a sitting position but strong slender fingers carefully held him down.

“No John, stay still and rest.” The deep baritone washed over him, and he relaxed as it continued “You’ve got internal and external stitches in your stomach, you really don’t want to tear them.”

The fingers moved, until they came to rest on his forearm. With a gentle squeeze the hand rested there.

“That knife was meant for me.  Thank you John, once again I owe you my life, and thankfully once again you’ll live to fight another day.”

John smiled, sighed, and gave up trying to admonish the owner of the baritone voice; that could wait until he was feeling more like himself. Letting his head gently roll to one side he drifted back into the black no-man’s land of peaceful sleep.


	10. The Jaws of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is set 221B style......and takes John's mind back to an adventure he'd rather forget!

John stood, swaying. This was his worst nightmare come true, Baskerville, revisited and real!

He knew he was in trouble when in the first attack the beast had found his weak spot and dislocated his left shoulder.  His right arm was ripped and bleeding from the second onslaught, and only the determination that he wasn’t about to sit and wait for his throat to be ripped out kept him upright.

Dizzy and feeling sick John watched the hound pace from side to side, and under his breath he prayed that Sherlock would find him soon.  A brief look around revealed the total absence of any kind of weapon that he could reasonably wield right handed.

The beast, sinking into a low crouch, snarled, and John saw the hind quarters bunched in preparation.  He concentrated on the animal’s quivering muscles, anticipating it would go for the kill this time. He saw the ‘twitch’ that precipitated movement, and as the powerful haunches pushed the beast into the air John flung himself sideways, knowing his time had run out as the animal landed, recovered, and turned towards him.

This close he could smell the fetid breath, yet the expected pain never came.

Sherlock’s voice, that beautiful baritone voice called his name. There was a gunshot, and John was sprayed with the hound’s warm blood.


	11. A Moment Frozen in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Marylouleach for this latest attack on John's life!

“I really cannot see why you are so upset about this, John.” Sherlock flicked a glance away from the road ahead of them and at his flatmate.

Their argument had started long before they had left the country hotel where they had been staying, working on one of Sherlock’s nastier private cases, and they were no closer to agreement.

John rolled his eyes and biting down on the temptation to shake his friend he found himself repeating his argument once more.

“I know you needed answers quickly, but to threaten the victim with prison for wasting your time was more than a bit not good.” His hands clenched in his lap as he stared at the other man’s profile. “She will probably need years of therapy, and unlike the man who abused her, she’s neither rich nor well connected.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I’ll ask Mycroft to speak to the judge then, get him to direct that Lord Cunliffe pay for her treatment.”

“Pfft! That’s not the…” as John turned away he saw in the half light of dusk, a deer standing in the middle of the road.

The next moment seemed to happen in slow motion. John yelled a warning to Sherlock, who was already trying to steer the car around the terrified animal. The road ahead was slick with black ice and despite his best efforts Sherlock felt the wheels lock up and the car start to spin slowly….

There was a thud as the rear end of the car hit the deer. Sherlock tried to steer out of the skid but the collision had pushed them closer to the edge of the road, and suddenly they were tumbling, the car rolled several times before landing on the passenger side, crushed against a tree in an icy water-filled ditch.

xXx

Sherlock shook his head slowly, trying to get his bearings. It was dark and he appeared to be hanging sideways, held in place rather uncomfortably by straps.

Like a light being switched on memories of his last conscious moments flooded back and he wriggled around, first trying to open the door but unfortunately he was unable to get enough leverage, then digging into his Belstaff pocket to find his mobile.

Despite the biting cold he managed to manoeuvre the phone so that he could switch on the built-in torch. The first thing he saw was John, also hanging sideways, but his head and shoulders were outside the shattered side window and one side of his face pressed into the wet, half frozen mud.

“John! John can you hear me?”

But John lay there, ominously still. Stretching carefully down he felt around for a pulse; it was sluggish and slow, and John’s skin was cold – too cold. Fumbling slightly with his phone Sherlock dialled three nines, and waited for the operator.

Establishing that they needed an ambulance, Sherlock struggled momentarily to remember which road they were on.

“We were about ten minutes out of Welney, on the A1101. We can’t be that far from Littleport.” He frowned. “The road is very icy – we came off on black ice.”

The operator repeated their position and advised that the ambulance was on its way.

Never the most patient of people, Sherlock was acutely aware that the longer John lay half out of the vehicle and on the cold damp ground the more likely hypothermia would set in, and he was torn between trying to pull him back into the vehicle and leaving him so as not to aggravate any possible internal injuries.

It felt like he had deliberated with himself for hours when Sherlock finally decided to stretch his hand back down, this time feeling gently around, trying to reach far enough to identify any injuries to John’s head and neck.

John groaned.

“John, ambulance is on its way. Where does it hurt? John?”

There was no lucid response, just another groan, and Sherlock took that as a warning not to try to move him, obviously it had been the pressure of his fingers that caused his friend pain. He moved his hand back up, keeping a loose grip on John’s wrist, listening for the sound of vehicles while monitoring his friend’s pulse.

xXx

The next thing Sherlock knew was the driver side door had been wrenched open and a paramedic was leaning in.

“You’re alright mate; we’ll have you free in no time. Now, any pain or obvious injuries?” the cheerful yet professional voice sounded loud in the silence. And Sherlock squinted up at the bright lights coming from the emergency vehicles.

“Just stiff from hanging here.” He croaked back at the man. “My friend…”

“One at a time, we need to get you out first. There is a recovery vehicle on route, but hopefully we’ll have you both out before it arrives.”

Slowly – much too slowly for the consulting detective’s peace of mind – the paramedic helped him balance himself on various bits of the internal structure of the vehicle before firm hands under his armpits gently pulled him free.

At one point as he moved around the car shifted, and everyone held their breath. A small groan from the unconscious doctor spurred them on despite the precariousness of the situation.

As he sat in the back of the ambulance, the argument they had been having went round and round in Sherlock’s head. He suddenly realised that he didn’t want his last ever conversation with John to have been an argument.

Back at the car, the smaller of the two paramedics, with the help of a police officer who had been deployed to the accident scene, had lowered himself into the back of the vehicle so he could put a brace on John’s neck, and manoeuver him carefully onto a backboard that was being lowered into the vehicle.

It was slow going, but within fifteen minutes they not only had both men free of the vehicle, but strapped into the ambulance and on their way to the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital.

xXx

Despite his insistence that he be allowed to sit with John, Sherlock found to his annoyance that no-one was taking much notice of him, other than to tell him to stay just where he was and wait until the consultant was happy to allow him into ICU.

He paced up and down the corridor outside Intensive Care, stalked down to get coffee from the machine that served when the café was closed, then back up resume his perambulation.

“You will wear a grove along the floor with your incessant pacing.” The smooth voice of Mycroft Holmes sounded loud in the quiet corridor.

Sherlock looked up, pleased for once to see the grey suited embodiment of the British Government walking swiftly towards him.

“They won’t let me in.” he sounded less angry, more petulant at being ignored.

“I see.” His brother looked him over. “You are alright I take it?”

“Yes, yes don’t fuss – nothing more than bruised ribs from hanging by my seat belt for God knows how long. I want to see that John’s alright”

Mycroft nodded, and knocked on the outer door of the ICU, holding up his government ID to the window. In a short while a middle aged, grey haired consultant stepped through the door, carefully closing it behind him.

“What can I do for you Mr…er…” he peered once more at Mycroft’s ID. “Mr Holmes?”

“I wish to know why my brother has been refused permission to see his friend.”

“Friend you say?” the older man scratched his chin. “Are you Sherlock?”

The young detective stepped forward.

“Yes – is he alright?”

“He keeps saying ‘no please, no Sherlock no.’ To be fair we weren’t sure what he meant, and thought maybe this Sherlock wasn’t the friend we surmised. We had considered calling the police.”

As the younger Holmes opened his mouth to make a scathing comment Mycroft held up a restraining hand, and looked down his nose at the consultant.

“Dr Watson is used to being the one to save my brother from himself – his delirious rants are probably because the last thing he knew was that they were in a car together skidding off an icy road. If you want him calmed, I suggest you let my brother speak to him.”

The consultant looked a little dubious at first, but in the face of unwavering stares from both Holmes brothers he led them through to John’s bedside.

Sherlock sat down and put a hand on John’s arm.

“John, how are you feeling?”

John, who had been tossing restlessly in his bed stilled.

“Sh’lock?”

“Here John.”

With what vaguely looked like a nod, the blond doctor settled quietly into his pillows and sunk into an easy sleep. Sherlock turned to the doctor.

“Injuries?”

“Fortunately, apart from glass cut he was very lucky. His main problem was the cold, but I have no doubt he will make a full recovery once we have his body temperature stabilised.”

Sherlock tightened his hold on John’s arm.

“Okay John, time to get better.” He said quietly. “I’ll just have to wait here until you do, and you know how much I hate hospitals!”


	12. The Air That I Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This twelfth way of almost killing John was chosen by the very talented Hjohn302 - if you haven't read her stories I would urge you to do so straight away...well...after you've read this!

“John, are you sure you don’t mind finishing up these last few patients for me?”

Sarah looked like the last thing she needed was to be called back to her flat to deal with a leaking pipe, but her elderly neighbour was complaining that it was dripping through his ceiling and it really couldn’t be left.

John looked up from the pile of referral letters on his desk and smiled.

“I can sign these off afterwards, might even make use of the peace and quiet to do some admin before I head off. Just get Penny to send them through.”

With a grateful nod Sarah hurried away, and John put the letters into his drawer as he prepared to see the next patient.

xXx

The last few turned out to be six, four that were booked in, one young lad that had fallen over on the pavement playing football outside the centre and was brought in by his friends to be patched up, and a patient whose elderly husband hadn’t been able to keep food or drink down for over 24 hours.

John had agreed with alacrity when Penny had asked if it was okay to bring the patient along, despite the centre having officially closed half an hour earlier. One look at the patient – two very brief tests – and John called an ambulance to have the man admitted with suspected sepsis.

With the patient soon in good hands, the ex-army doctor reassured the receptionist that he was quite capable of locking up, deciding that if nothing else got done he would at least sign off the letters before leaving.

Securing the outer door he wandered back through to his surgery, closed the door behind him and pulled out the sheaf of papers.

xXx

It wasn’t often that Sherlock actually noticed that John wasn’t in the flat – unless of course he needed something and was too lazy or engrossed in his work to get it himself – but when Dimmock phoned at nearly 7pm with a case so simple he could solve it over the phone he looked around and realised he was the sole occupant of 221B.

There was no tell-tale cup of tea, gone cold because he hadn’t noticed John putting it on the table, no menu on the arm of John’s chair to suggest he’d ordered take-away and was at that moment downstairs collecting and paying for it, and no text on his mobile saying he’d decided to go for a drink with Sarah, or Stamford, or even that disgustingly sweet receptionist, Peggy.

Three texts and an unanswered phone call later Sherlock was shrugging into his Belstaff and running down the stairs.

Despite knowing it was well past the centre’s closing time he directed the cabbie to North Gower Street, leaping out as it pulled up outside the old office block that housed, on its ground floor, Dr Sawyer’s medical centre.

The light was still on in John’s room, but Sherlock couldn’t see through the blinds. Despite banging on the window there was no reply, and in frustration he tried to open it, but it was locked.

Under cover of shadows he picked the lock and swept into the building, barely taking two steps before he realised the reason John hadn’t come home.

The smell of gas hung heavy in the air, and leaving the door wide open Sherlock sprinted towards John’s surgery, bursting through the door to find his friend slumped over his desk. Heaving him over his shoulder, he carried the doctor out of the building, pulling his phone from his pocket and calling for an ambulance.

xXx

On the bed inside the ambulance with an orange blanket draped around his shoulders, John sat with an oxygen mask strapped to his face, two paramedics moving softly around him, quietly monitoring his progress.

As the utility company’s emergency call out team arrived to repair the gas leak in the building, Sherlock turned his gaze away and looked up at his friend. Their eyes met, and the slightest of nods said everything John needed to say – thanks for coming to look for me, thanks for saving my life – and the young detective’s answering nod replied – that’s okay, any time.


	13. Three Months and Seven Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This method of nearly killing John was chosen by the lovely and talented BenAddiction.

Three months. Well, three months and seven days to be exact, since Sherlock fell.

 

Two months and twenty seven days since his funeral.

 

Six hours since John last visited the grave, since he voiced his final plea for a miracle that he knew would never happen.

 

Six hours. On the walk home he had promised himself he wouldn’t ask again, knowing that the dead cannot hear, and miracles never happen.

 

Greg Lestrade had met him at the door of 221 Baker Street, and insisted on dragging him out for a beer, arguing that it’s not healthy to cut oneself off from everything and everyone. And John had gone along, if only to reassure the other man that all was well, and that he was perfectly fine.

 

But he wasn’t fine, far from it.

 

Their conversation steered carefully around the painful subject of Sherlock – their very own Banquo, the ghost at the feast – to the equally unsatisfactory discussions of work (that John no longer had of his own, nor got involved in Greg’s), flats (Greg was looking for a flat now that his wife had left him, John was looking for a flatmate - six feet tall, dark curly hair, posh git) and social activities (the sad fact that neither had a social life soon became apparent), until eventually, with a sad smile, John left Greg to finish his pint and walked the lonely half mile home.

 

xXx

 

Greg sat in the Barley Mow in Dorset Street, trying to put his finger on what exactly had been so very wrong about this whole evening. Something had struck a dissonant note with the older man, and he stared long and hard into this pint glass trying to see what it was.

 

As the barman called last orders Greg rose to leave, his feet taking him unwittingly back to the Baker Street flat, to check on his friend.

 

A sleepy Mrs Hudson opened the door to him, chiding him about calling so late at night, but smiling none the less as he explained he wanted to speak to John. Before Sherlock’s demise the Detective Inspector had often called at odd hours, and so the elderly lady thought no more of it, turning back to her flat as Greg mounted the stairs two at a time.

 

xXx

 

The flat door was unlocked, and although when Sherlock was alive this was nothing unusual, Greg had a bad feeling about it as he pushed it open and crossed the threshold.

 

John was sitting in his usual chair, staring at the leather armchair that so often supported the slender, angular frame of the late consulting detective.

 

“John? You okay mate?” Greg watched as glassy blue eyes blinked slowly, but no answer was forthcoming.

 

A quick glance around showed the cause – an open bottle of scotch, about two thirds full, sat on the table at John’s elbow. There was no indication that the doctor had eaten anything since returning home, and Greg was horribly aware that a third of a bottle of spirits on top of the beer and an empty stomach was not good at all.

 

“John, can you hear me?” he put a hand on John’s shoulder and gently shook him but his head just lolled, and he blinked slowly.

 

“Listen mate,” Greg tried again, “have you taken anything other than the booze?”

 

But John was in a stupor, and as he made a quick check around the flat to see if there were any other empty drink bottles Greg reached for his mobile and dialled 999.

Explaining quickly John’s symptoms and reactions, Greg found himself being asked to check how many breaths a minute John was taking. He listened to the ambulance controller tell him a vehicle was on its way as he counted – just seven inhalations.

 

“Sir, you will have to stay with your friend.” The professional voice said. “It sounds very much like he has alcohol poisoning, but the paramedics will confirm that when they arrive.”

 

“Well of course I’ll stay with him. Should I walk him around or something?”

 

“No Sir, just try to keep him awake, but if he loses consciousness you should put him into the recovery position – are you able to do that?”

 

Greg bit down a snarl of frustration, knowing that the controller was only following procedure. He agreed that yes, he could put John into recovery, then closed the call and waited for the ambulance.

 

xXx

 

Putting an arm around Mrs Hudson’s shaking shoulders Greg watched as the ambulance pulled away.

 

“Oh dear…” the elderly lady’s voice quivered as she leaned into the Detective’s hold. “What has he done to himself?”

 

“It’s more what he hasn’t been doing Mrs H.” Greg gave her a quick squeeze and led her back towards her flat. “I don’t think he’s been eating and alcohol on an empty stomach…” He cursed himself silently for not realising how much weight the other man had lost, but now was not the time for recriminations. “If you want, I’ll wait ‘til you’re ready and you can come to the hospital with me.”

While he waited, he sent a text to the only other person he knew would be concerned – Mycroft Holmes. For all the man was as unfeeling a machine as his brother had pretended to be, he had been the only other person to voice concerns about how John Watson would be coping. As they climbed into the mini-cab that would take them to St Mary’s, he received a reply.

 

**_‘Meet you there – MH’_ **

 

xXx

 

John opened his eyes and blinked at the bright lights. Three faces were staring down at him, blurred and fuzzy, and it took a moment or two before he finally recognised his landlady, Greg and Mycroft.

 

“…….” Although his mouth was moving, his throat was raw and no sound came out.

 

“John dear,” There was a crack in Mrs Hudson’s voice as she fought to keep tears at bay.

 

Stepping a little closer Greg put a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t try to talk mate, they pumped your stomach.”

 

John frowned, and his frown deepened as Greg explained that he had suffered acute alcohol poisoning. Worse still, Mycroft chose that moment to lecture him about looking after himself, making him feel small and very stupid.

 

Shaking his head, pain-filled blue eyes looked up at Mrs Hudson, and he held out a hand towards her. “I’m sorry.” He whispered hoarsely, closing his eyes against the sadness that surrounded him.

 

Mrs Hudson stayed beside him, holding on to him as if afraid to let go. Greg and Mycroft waited until the patient had drifted back to sleep, then said their farewells and left.

 

Pausing at the door, Mycroft turned and looked back at the touching scene before him, the elderly landlady and her broken, suffering tenant.

 

“There will be a car ready to take you home whenever you are ready Mrs Hudson.” He said quietly. “Just ask at the desk, I’ll make sure they know what to do.” And without waiting for an answer he quietly closed the door behind him, satisfied that he wouldn’t have to break bad news this time at least.

 

 

 


	14. Intent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Starrysummernights for choosing this particular method of nearly killing poor John.

Picking up his mobile John read the caller ID and grinned, pressing the green button and speaking, a smile lifting his tone.

“Bill! Blimey mate, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

As he listened his grin faded, and Sherlock noted the narrowing of his eyes as he listened to his friend speak.

Pushing up from his chair John continued to listen as he hurried up the stairs and shut himself into his bedroom.

Sherlock was curious. He’s heard (or rather overheard) several stories about the exploits of John’s old army mates, and Bill featured heavily in most of them. Everything he’d heard led him to assume that – battlefields aside – Bill Murray was rarely serious, yet John’s reaction told him that whatever Bill had said to him, it was not the jovial comment John had expected.

xXx

Up in his room, John listened as Bill talked. He had brought the family to London for a long weekend, all planned so that there was something for everyone to enjoy.

“We were just finishing up our trip to the Tower of London – Jamie’s always wanted to go there – when Helen fainted.”

“Pregnant?” John asked, his mind automatically dredging up memories of earlier times and fainting fits.

“I thought that, but she looked so pale and was in pain so we jumped a cab to A&E – it seems she has an ectopic, they’re keeping her in and will operate this afternoon.”

“Shit Bill, I’m so sorry mate – what can I do to help?”

There was a pause, and he heard his friend take a deep, steadying breath before answering.

“We had tickets to take the kids to the circus in Battersea Park – that was Sal’s choice, and I could really do with getting them out of here, at least until…...” Bill paused, struggling a little for composure. “Would you…”

“Take them to the circus while you stay with Helen – of course mate. I’ll be there within the hour.”

“The show doesn’t start until seven.”

“No, but we can take a turn around the park, find an ice-cream or take a boat out on the lake, don’t worry about it, concentrate on that lovely wife of yours – I’ll see you soon.”

xXx

Sherlock raised his eyes from his microscope as John hurried down the stairs, lifting his head and looking towards the kitchen door.

“Hope you don’t need me today.” The doctor was pulling his jacket on as he spoke, checking his pockets for wallet, keys and phone. “Bill needs some help…”

Waving a careless hand Sherlock nodded towards the petri dishes, beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks on the table.

“I’ll be busy here.”

John looked a little doubtful.

“And I won’t disturb you until I know you’ve done whatever it is you’ve agreed to do.”

“Like that’s gonna happen.” A laugh escaped. “My phone will be on silent, so it’s unlikely I’ll respond anyway.”

Not waiting for further conversation John hurried out of the flat, running down the stairs and out of the building silently praying he could snag a cab without too much hassle.

xXx

Oblivious to their mother’s suffering, Sally and Jamie Murray giggled and yelled encouragement as John pulled on the oars, sending the tired little rowing boat skimming across the boating pond at race speed.

“Cambridge is winning!” Sally squealed delightedly.

“Oxford, silly.” Her older brother corrected. “Uncle John’s wearing a dark blue shirt!”

“No chance!” John chuckled as he stretched forwards then flexed his arm muscles, oars cutting through the water like a hot knife through butter. “I couldn’t keep this up for over 4 miles kids.”

“Race, race, race.”

“I think there might be a speed limit on this lake,” Pulling the oars in John rested for a moment. “Besides, there’s no-one else racing and you can’t race on your own.”

“But you’re not on your own Uncle John, you’ve got us!”

Grinning at the five year olds logic, he let the boat drift gently back towards the mooring point and boathouse.

“Where now Uncle John?” Jamie climbed out of the boat and held it still while the doctor lifted Sally up onto dock.

“McDonalds!!” Sally kicked her legs, almost causing them to overbalance into the water.

“That okay with you Jamie?”

“S’pose.” The boy shrugged. “Can I have a milkshake?”

“S’pose.” John shrugged in a passable imitation of Bill’s son, making both children giggle again. Checking his watch, John added “We’ve got about an hour and a half before the show starts, let’s hope they live up to their fast food reputation.”

xXx

Despite the circumstances, John couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed as much at pure nonsense. And either side of him the children were captivated, laughing and gasping at the tricks and tumbles, on the edges of their seats as the lions jumped through hoops, and overawed when the pachyderm troop entered the ring.

They were large and stately, draped and dressed with brightly coloured cloth, each item richly embroidered in gold and silver thread. Under the direction of a scantily clad ‘Indian maiden’ they danced a sedate waltz, moving in unison crossing the ring.

The audience was entranced, yet while everyone’s attention was on the glittering spectacle John’s hackles rose suddenly, and he scanned the arena and seating area trying to see what had caused it.

It was the fizz and spark that caught his eye, but too late. A group of lads had crept in, sneaking through the steel framework of the raised seating, and were now throwing firecrackers into the ring

A scream rent the air just as John reached out and grabbed the children.

“With me kids.” He yelled, looking around for the nearest exit.

Panicking children and parents were running, blindly trying to escape the terrified animals who were crashing and stampeding around the ring, and John realised that most people were moving down to try to get to the main exits. He swung Sally up onto his back.

“Hang on tight Sal. Jamie, we’ll have to climb over the seats, but there should be a fire exit up there.”

Ignoring the noises behind them, the mingled screams of both man and beast, Jamie and John climbed steadily over the seats, aiming for the very top seats.

Reaching the top John risked a glance back as the noise levels rose suddenly and dramatically, and saw to his horror that the elephants were trying to climb up into the seating. People were being crushed and the keepers were nowhere to be seen.

He crouched down and allowed Bill’s daughter to slide off his back, then pulling her round in front of him pointed to a fire exit, leading to a set of metal stairs.

“That way.” He said, ushering them towards the others making their way out of the chaos. “Hold hands and stay together.” His tone brooking no argument.

They almost made it to the outside of the tent when an ominous cracking heralded the fact that the structure could no longer take the strain, and scooping up his two charges John threw them to safety as a mass of metal, wood, canvas and flesh crashed down upon him.

 

xXx

Tapping on the door before she entered, Mrs Hudson bustled into the kitchen, carrying a mug of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits.

“I know John’s not home yet, so I brought you tea and a snack.”

Sherlock remained seated in front of his microscope, not deigning to respond. Mrs Hudson wasn’t deterred.

“Have you seen the news? What a dreadful thing to happen in Battersea Park – apparently they went mad.”

“Mrs Hudson,” with a resigned sigh Sherlock lifted his head. “I have not moved from here since mid-day. I am in the middle of some delicate comparisons so no, I haven’t seen the news, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me who went mad.”

“Why the elephants of course!”

“Elephants?”

Settling on one of the kitchen chairs, Mrs Hudson settled down for a cosy chat, explaining all she had learned about the firecrackers, and the frightened animals.

“Apparently they tried to climb into the seating area and one side of the big top collapsed.” Her face took on a saddened expression, and she gathered up the used cups and plate, turning to leave. “There are hundreds hurt, or dead. Children, adults….”

And as his landlady disappeared from view Sherlock frowned and turned back to concentrate on his sample comparisons.

Peace and quiet settled over the flat once more except for the scratching of pencil on notepad as he recorded his findings, and he had just completed his last comparison when his phone shattered the silence.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock, has John got a niece and nephew?”

“What?”

“I said…”

“Yes I heard you Lestrade. No, as far as I know his sister’s not got any children, why?”

“There’s been an incident at Battersea Park and half a dozen elephants…”

“Stampeded, yes, Mrs Hudson told me. As for John, I’d ask him but he went out to help an old friend with something. You could try ringing him instead of me.”

There was exasperation and frustration in Lestrade’s voice.

“Look Sherlock, I’ve got a hunt on for a group of morons who threw firecrackers at half a dozen four ton animals, I’ve got the aforementioned animals so badly injured they’ve had to be shot.” He took a breath. “Then I’ve got hundreds of people injured, so far thirty confirmed dead and…..”

“And what does this have to do with John?” Sherlock interrupted.

“I’m getting to that.” Lestrade snapped. “I’ve got two hysterical children here screaming that their uncle John Watson threw them clear before the structure collapsed – now who do we know with that name that would do that sort of thing, eh? So answer me you moron, does John have a niece and a nephew?”

Sherlock stilled. He could hear the police officer’s heavy breathing as he waited for an answer, and as he stared at John’s chair that answer unfolded in front of his eyes.

“Lestrade, John was going out to do a favour for his old army friend Bill Murray. I believe he may be looking after the children for him.” He heard the older man ask another officer about the children, hearing also the faint response – Jamie and Sally Murray. His next words cut through anything Greg may have said.

“I’ll get Murray’s phone number from John’s laptop, hang on to the kids and I’ll contact him – I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“No just…..”

But Sherlock had already cut the call as he opened up John’s laptop and hacked into the electronic address book.

xXx

Giving the makeshift triage area a wide berth Sherlock swept towards the clutch of officers stood around the police van.

“Oh God, it’s the freak!” Sally Donovan’s voice attracted his attention, and he veered towards it, even knowing she would be winding up to throw at him a barrage of insults he could scarcely be bothered.

“Lestrade, where are the children?” He asked, seeing his quarry sitting half in - half out of his car.

The older man tipped his head towards the rear seat of the vehicles.

“You’re not going to let him talk to them are you?” Sally was already bristling with indignation.

“No Sally, I’m not here to talk to them.” He turned his back on her. “Lestrade, I’ve informed your cordon officers that Bill Murray will be here to collect his children and that when he arrives they are to phone you.”

“Where was he?”

“At St Thomas’s hospital where his wife has undergone emergency surgery.”

There was a tense silence as they digested the information, broken by the sound of the car’s rear door opening. Jamie climbed out.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” He asked, looking up at the curly haired detective.

“Yes I am.” This wasn’t comfortable territory for Sherlock, and he could see Donovan’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“Will Uncle John be alright? They will find him, won’t they?”

As both Lestrade and Donovan held their breath, Sherlock was reading the child’s character – _son of a soldier medic, lived with the possibility that he could lose his father on active duty, despite his brevity of years he understands enough about life to see through the pale lies of over-protective adults, wants to be strong for the sake of his younger sister, fond of his uncle John and afraid he may never see him again_ – and he smiled ever so slightly.

“Jamie, it is inevitable that they will, eventually, find John. I cannot promise you that he will be alright, but I can tell you that your uncle is one of the bravest, most resourceful men I know, and if there is any way at all that he could get out of this mess alive, I know he will try his best to do so.”

“Yeah, that sounds like John.” A voice behind them spoke.

“Dad!” Jamie cried.

“Daddy!” Sally launched herself out of the car and into her father’s arms.

Bill Murray pulled his son close and looked across at Sherlock.

“Thank you for not lying to him – we’ve always tried to be honest, even when the truth may hurt.”

Sherlock nodded, smiled down once more at the boy, then turned on his heel and walked away, heading towards the rescue effort, now in full swing beside the tangled ruins of the once magnificent big top.

There was a human chain passing injured and walking wounded along to triage, while another team was working a little further away was carefully cutting into tangled and ominously stained canvas.

“This is where the fire exit was that John threw the kids out of.” Greg’s voice behind him made Sherlock stop and turn to face him.

“So why are they only now trying to get to the people caught up here?”

Greg pointed to a point midway between the where they stood and the human chain.

“There was an unstable area just there, they needed to stabilise it before trying to get to the people here.” He scrubbed a hand through his short grey hair. “We know there are people still alive in here, can hear them, crying, calling for help….”

“Not John though?”

“No, even tried his number – it rings out to voicemail, not a good sign.”

“Oh I don’t know – he said he’d have it on silent, it could be that he’s just unable to reach it, and you’re unable to hear it from out here.”

xXx

Three hours after the initial collapse, most of the dead and injured had been freed, and they were extracting what they hoped were the last of the victims.

Despite his concern, Sherlock stood back, not wanting to get in the way, particularly since Lestrade had pointed out that they still had one of the elephants unaccounted for – it was most likely that it had managed to get almost to the top of the seating rig before the structure collapsed. It was only the fact that they were still bringing people out alive that gave anyone hope.

Bill had asked that they let him know either way, and had taken the kids to be checked out at the hospital, meanwhile convoys of ambulances had taken the injured to hospital and now a temporary mortuary had been set up.

Suddenly there was a call for silence and as one the workers stopped what they were doing and ceased talking.

There was the faint sound of crying, and a murmur coming from within the confines of the tent.

“Can you hear us?” the lead fire officer called.

Several voices responded and both Sherlock and Greg took a step closer.

“Can you tell us, how many are you and how badly injured?”

There was another murmur, and several voices raised, then a pain filled but familiar voice floated out to them.

“There are about a dozen of us, trapped and injured. We have at least four children here. All bar three of us are just unable to move out from the wreckage without fear of bringing it down.”

“Thank you sir, what about the other three?”

“We are trapped, myself and one of the children are pinned down, our legs are trapped. The third is an elderly gentleman – I can’t find a pulse.”

“Don’t panic sir,” the fireman tried to reassure. “We’ll get proper medically trained assistance to him.”

There was a pause, then

“I’m a doctor. My name is John Watson. I can tell when there’s a pulse and when there isn’t one.” He took a breath then asked “There were two children with me, Jamie and Sally Murray, have they been found and taken to safety?”

Sherlock stepped forward.

“John, they’re safe, they’re with their father.”

“Sherlock? How the hell….?”

“Not now John, Just relax, they’ll get you all out soon.”

xXx

When he finally opened his eyes John found himself in a private hospital room. Off to one side was the soft murmur of voices, and as he turned his head he saw Bill and Sherlock sitting talking.

“Whatever he says about me it’s not true.” He croaked.

“Uncle John!” Two voices from the other side of the room alerted him to the presence of Jamie and Sally.

“Hey kids!” He held out a hand and mussed Sally’s hair, then gripped Jamie’s shoulder. “How you doing?”

“They’re good, thanks to you.” Bill stepped up to the bedside, Sherlock close behind.

“Would you care to elaborate on your last statement John? Were you talking to Bill or me?”

“Both of you!” John smiled back at them, then tried to lift his head to see what the damage was.

Long slender fingers pushed his shoulders back down.

“Two broken legs, extensive bruising, and they are assessing you for the after effects of crush syndrome.”

“What about the little girl that was pinned down near me?”

“Doing okay.” Bill said, but there was sadness there too. “The elderly gentleman turned out to be her grandfather; they think his heart just gave out.”

John nodded.

“And how’s Helen?”

“She’s good,” Bill’s smile returned “They’re letting her out tomorrow if she continues to improve.” He moved around the bed and put an arm around each of his kids. “You know, I don’t really know how to thank you for getting them out safely…”

“Then don’t.” John said with a smile. “Take them back to their mother and give her a hug from me. Maybe we’ll catch up once I’m out of here and out of plaster?”

“You’re on!”

Waving as the children left the room, John turned his attention back to his flatmate and raised a querying eyebrow.

“Only you John could go on an outing with children and end up being crushed by a dead elephant!”

 


	15. Every Breath I Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my lovely daughter, Secretmoustache2 to thank for choosing this particular near death experience.
> 
> PLEASE BE WARNED THAT THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS NON GRAPHIC JOHNLOCK AND MYSTRADE

“Move Lestrade, _move_!”

From somewhere to his right Greg could hear John’s voice and a grim smile plastered itself to his grime covered face – John never called him Lestrade, he must be beside himself with worry.

A solid body thudded into him, and through the smoke he saw John’s face, equally grimy, tears streaming from smoke-irritated eyes.

“Stop grinning you daft bugger and get moving, before this whole place falls down around our ears.”

Greg nodded, coughed, and let the smaller man drag him through the burning building.

They made it down the first flight of stairs, but as they turned the corner flames exploded through the lower staircase, and it collapsed in a heap of smoke and sparks.

“Fuck….” John choked. “Back up.”

“Can’t.” Greg coughed.

They both peered up through the smoke to see flames licking at the top of the bannister.

“Shit! Fuck! Okay – plan B. You climb out the window, I’ll hold you until you’re as close to the ground as you can get, then jump.”

“You’re joking?”

Pushing the window open John shoved Lestrade towards it, almost lifting him bodily onto the window ledge. Taking a gulp of cold clean air he leaned in close to the Detective Inspector.

“Mycroft Holmes has lost his brother; I’ll be damned if I let him lose the only other man he cares about, now get going!”

Before Greg could argue he found himself out of the window and hanging on to John’s outstretched hand. Below him members of his team were shouting to him to jump.

With a brief nod towards the smoke stained face above him Greg said a brief prayer and jumped, landing with his leg folded under him, the sound of a snapping tibia smothered by his yell of pain, but even that was nothing to his yell seconds later, as a spray of sparks from the window was accompanied by the sound of cracking, collapsing timbers.

“JOHN!”

xXx

In a darkened curtained off cubicle in ICU, Mycroft Holmes stood looking down at the fragile form of Dr Watson, intubated and heavily bandaged, his injuries a mixture of burns, cuts and smoke inhalation.

At Mycroft’s side confined to a wheelchair, sat Detective Inspector Lestrade. He too stared at the man in the bed.

“He pushed me out of that window Myc, he saved my life….” Greg’s voice was hoarse with a mixture of smoke and emotion. “He said….”

Mycroft placed one hand on the older man’s shoulder, pulling him close, while his other hand moved to stroke gently through Greg’s short grey hair.

“I know Gregory; he said he wouldn’t let me lose you.”

“You’ve got to tell him Myc.”

“I can’t.” Mycroft turned his head to look sadly down into his partner’s hazel eyes. “Please don’t ask me to – both his safety and Sherlock’s depends on his complete ignorance of the truth.”

“What if he just gives up? What good will it do if Sherlock comes back and John is dead, lost the will to live and just…..gone?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to refute the possibility, but the look in Greg’s eyes stopped him, made him consider how he would feel if the tables had been turned.

“We wouldn’t be here, together, if not for John and Sherlock.” Greg said softly. “But for them you’d still believe that love is a defect found on the losing side, and I’d still be living alone, wondering if I’d grow to old age a sad and lonely man.”

Turning away Mycroft walked towards the curtains, holding them open just far enough for Lestrade to wheel through.

Standing by the nurse’s station, Mrs Hudson looked old, frail and worried. Straightening his face into his blandest, most reassuring expression, Mycroft approached and took her hands in his.

“Ah, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for taking the time to come and sit with John.”

“As if I’d stay away.” She chided him gently, then looking pityingly at the Detective inspector. “Oh you poor boy, is it a bad break?”

“Could be worse Mrs H.” He forced a smile for the octogenarian. “Do you need an escort down…?”

“No, I’ll make my own way.”

“Someone will be here to sit with him overnight.” Mycroft assured her. “And I’ll make sure there’s a car to take you home.”

With a nod of thanks Mrs Hudson made her way to where John lay, leaving Mycroft to push Greg in his wheelchair out of the ward.

xXx

Greg lay asleep on the couch in the sitting room attached to Mycroft’s office, while the government official made the first of many calls.

In a number of foreign locations British Embassies were mobilising staff to ascertain the whereabouts of a certain individual, and contingencies put in place in readiness for said individual being found and transported.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was soft yet insistent, and the Detective Inspector slowly blinked back to consciousness.

“Whasssup?” he mumbled, screwing up his eyes and peering at his watch. “Myc it’s 2am, have I slept here for nearly twelve hours?”

“You obviously needed it.” Smiling down at the invalid the government official gestured to the pot of tea and plate of biscuits on the table. “I’m going out to RAF Northolt to pick up a consignment and deliver it to the hospital, you help yourself to tea and I should be back in a couple of hours.”

Greg’s eyes searched his partner’s face.

“You’ve found…..?”

“Yes, the flight arrives at three, when I’ve made the delivery I’ll pick you up and take you home.”

“And I’m not coming with you because…..?”

“I don’t want any blame attaching to you – now, I must go or my tardiness will just be one more cause for complaint.”

Pulling his jacket straight and picking up his umbrella he dropped a light kiss on Lestrade’s brow before heading out to his car.

For a long moment Greg sat and stared at the now closed office door, wondering how Sherlock would take the news.

xXx

The dark haired figure ran down the steps from the private airplane and stalked across the tarmac to the waiting car.

“You were supposed to be keeping him safe.” The baritone snarl, was low filling the back of the car. “What was John doing in a burning building?”

“Brother, you are well aware what he was doing, he was helping Gregory…”

“Can’t you keep your boyfriend out of our lives? John should never have been…”

“He offered to help – you introduced him to this world and then you left him, he was almost suicidal at times.” Mycroft turned his head and stared at his brother’s angry face. “He said helping brought him closer to you.”

Sherlock huffed and looked away, knowing there was no argument he could give that would change the truth of that statement.

Mycroft lay a hand on his brother’s arm.

“You have a couple of hours before we have to fly you out again, make the most of it.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence, as was the seemingly endless walk through the sterile hall of the hospital. With a quiet nod to the ICU staff Mycroft led the way to John’s curtained off cubicle.

Molly Hooper was sitting at the doctor’s bedside, and she looked up with a gasp as Sherlock stepped up beside her. Of its own volition her hand reached towards him, but he was staring at his partner.

With a gentle hand on Molly’s arm Mycroft led her away, murmuring his thanks for the time she had given up for John, their soft voices and footsteps fading from Sherlocks ears as he looked down, stricken.

When he stepped from the roof of St Bart’s he never meant for John to suffer, he had hoped this whole mess would be sorted quickly, that he would be back before now triumphant and cleared of any reputational damage. Instead he slipped his coat off and sat in the chair recently vacated by Molly.

“John,” taking the unconscious man’s hand, Sherlock’s voice cracked as he spoke. “I had hoped you’d stay safe, that I’d come home, you’d shout at me, but we’d…”

The words dried on his tongue, and he sat forward, letting his forearms rest along the side of the bed, his fingers stroking a small patch of undamaged skin amongst the soft white bandages.

“John, this has yet again taken a turn that I hadn’t foreseen. Every step I’ve taken has been with the intention of keeping you safe, and I’ve failed. I never could persuade you to stop risking yourself for others, and now look at you.” He stood and stroked a hand through the uneven lengths of John’s hair, feeling the coarse texture of burnt ends where sparks had caught it.

Leaning down he spoke directly into John’s ear.

“You have to get better John, you have to believe that life is worth living. Soon, very soon, I’ll come back to you – but you have to live, you have to be here alive and well, waiting for me, because that thought, that dream is the only thing keeping me going.”

“The car is ready for you Mr Holmes” Anthea stood just inside the curtains, giving at least the illusion of preserving the two men’s privacy.

Sherlock flicked her a glance, nodded, then turned back to press a soft kiss on John’s pale forehead.

“Wait for me John, I’ll be back.” He whispered, then turned, grabbed his coat, and strode away, leaving his brother’s P.A. to sit beside the unresponsive man.

xXx

As John’s breathing became stronger the doctors, pleased with his progress, gradually cut back on his sedation.

Slowly he resurfaced, panicking slightly before they removed the endotracheal tube, and by the time they allowed Mrs Hudson to return to his bedside he had been made comfortable and given some cool water to sip.

Carefully taking John’s still bandaged hands in hers, she turned watery eyes on his face.

“We thought we’d lose you this time,” she said. “Poor Greg was beside himself.”

“He was here.” John’s voice was raw.

“Who Gregory? Yes of course he was.” Mycroft had stepped in to the cubical in time to catch their conversation.

“No Sherlock.” A frown dinted John’s brow. “I heard him, he spoke to me.”

“Yes of course he did dear, he would want you to get well.” Mrs Hudson gently patted his hand. “You know he’s probably been watching over you since…”

“Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft gently drew her away. “I think John probably need to rest. He has a lot of injuries still.”

Saying her goodbyes, she allowed Anthea to escort her out to the waiting car, leaving the government man with his brother’s partner.

“Welcome back John,” he said with only the merest echo of his normal superciliousness .

“He was here Mycroft, Sherlock was here. He spoke to me.”

Mycroft looked down at him, raised a knowing eyebrow then followed Mrs Hudson.

Watching the curtain settle back into place John smiled a half smile of realisation.

“You git Sherlock, wait until I get my hands on you!”

 


	16. A Shocking Set Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Arty Diane for choosing this particular method of nearly killing John Watson.

John and Sherlock crept around the side of the house, looking for a weakness, an opening in the old building where they could enter unnoticed and catch the Bevan brothers with their latest victim.

As usual Lestrade was way behind them, putting together the necessary paperwork to legitimise a search of the premises. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the waste of time and hailed a cab – even John was urging speed as the threat to the kidnapped girl increased with every passing minute.

“Here.” Sherlock’s whisper broke into his friend’s reverie, and John looked over to see the lanky genius disappearing through a rusty gate. The hinges moved smoothly and without a sound.

“We’re expected.”

“Well of course we are John,” came the acerbic response. “But hopefully not for a while.”

John shook his head, he was well aware of Sherlock’s tendency to overlook the fact that some criminals were smarter than average.

Through the back door they could see in the gloom a dirty, dingy room where sunlight barely broke through the windows and dust motes hung thick in the still air.

Silently they moved forward, John taking a natural lead, Sherlock looking around and reading their surroundings.

A floor board creaked under John’s foot and he froze, raising a hand to stop Sherlock. The detective looked at his friend and opened his mouth to speak but John motioned him to silence, pointing towards a room at the far end of the hall.

From inside the room came the sound of a voice muffled by a gag, making urgent grunting sounds as if trying to call out.

“We move on carefully.” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear – the doctor nodded his agreement and started forward once more.

The frantic noises grew more urgent as they approached the door, and for a split second John forgot everything but the girl in vicious clutches of Niall Bevan and his psychotic twin Sean – and the lapse of concentration nearly cost him his life.

In the split second that the ex-soldier closed his hand around the metal door handle Sherlock realised the trap and cried out, but his warning came too late.

Time seemed to slow down, there was a fizzing crackle in the air and a blinding flash. The contact of flesh against metal sparked a savage jolt of electricity which flung John back down the hall to land with such force that the plaster on the wall exploded outwards.

From the end of the hallway came the sound of running feet and Sherlock looked up from where he was crouched beside his friend, expecting to have to fight to protect them both, but to his everlasting relief if was Lestrade and Donovan who burst through the door.

“Find the fuse box, turn off the electricity!” he yelled at the approaching officers. “The door’s booby-trapped.”

Donovan nodded and turned towards the cupboard under the stairs, looking for the tell-tale wires and dials.

“He alright?” Greg moved forward, gesturing to the still figure lying on the floor.

Sherlock had his hand at John’s neck.

“No pulse.” He replied tersely. “Get an ambulance.” And he started to turn his friend onto his back, preparing to start CPR.

Greg was just finishing a call to the ambulance service when Donovan returned.

“Power’s off.” Her eyes were drawn to Sherlock as she spoke.

Down the hall the frantic sounds had stopped, but even as he registered this and all its gory meaning Sherlock didn’t stop compressions.

“Door at the end,” he hissed through his teeth as he worked. “The metal handle was wired, should be safe to enter now.”

Over the sirens of the arriving paramedics Sherlock heard Lestrade’s anguished groan as he looked at the gruesome tableau on the other side of the door.

~O~

John opened his eyes, confused. He rolled his eyes round, taking in every aspect of the hospital room that he was in – obviously arranged by Mycroft, no one else could command private rooms at the drop of a hat (and John was sure this was a ‘drop of a hat’ situation) – a heart monitor stood silently to the side, and at the foot of his bed stood a petite red-haired nurse.

He must have made a noise because she looked up from his chart and smiled.

“How are you feeling Dr Watson?”

“John.” he croaked, trying his best and most winning smile on her. She responded favourably, walking up to stand beside him, gently adjusting the position of his bandaged hand on top of the covers and smiling sunnily.

“Your friends will be pleased to know you’re awake at last, John.” she said. “You’ve been reluctant to come back to us.”

“How long?”

“You were brought in yesterday afternoon, and it’s now…” she glanced down at her fob watch “just gone mid-day, so twenty-four hours.”

John nodded, his eyes moving once more around the room.

“And, er….my friend?”

“Which one? The nice policeman has just stepped out to get some lunch….”

“And the rather erratic one with dark curly hair and appalling manners?”

The nurse giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as if to stop the inappropriate sound escaping.

“He was asked to leave.” She leant in to whisper confidentially. “He kept asking, every five minute, why you weren’t waking up. Dr Bowen got so irate, I think if the police hadn’t dragged him out your friend would have been removed by security and banned from returning.” Smiling, she straightened up and smoothed the covers. “He’s just down the hall, in the visitor’s room. I’ll go and get him for you.”

John had to smother a smile when a furious looking Sherlock marched through the door, followed more sedately by Greg Lestrade.

“John! You’re awake at last! When can you leave here? These idiots aren’t fit to look after kids in a nursery let alone sick people…” the words spewed forth with barely a breath being drawn, only fading away as the young genius noticed the grin that was stretching wide across John’s face. “What?”

“You got yourself thrown out? Really Sherlock?”

“They’re idiots….”

“No, they’re professionals trying to do a job in what can be very difficult circumstances.”

Sherlock hung his head looking a little chastened, until he felt the brush of a bandaged hand against his.

“Sit down you pillock, and tell me what happened. I don’t remember much.”

Brightening immediately Sherlock sat.

“Well, it was lucky you didn’t quite grasp that door handle, otherwise rather than being blown back you would have been ‘stuck’ to it be the current….” He started eagerly.

Greg backed away from them, motioning with his head to the nurse to join him.

“He going to be okay?” he asked as they stepped outside the door.

“Yes, the burns on his hand were quite bad but he’ll heal, and there seems to be no lasting damage from either the shock or the CPR, just bruised ribs and back.”

Nodding, Greg turned sad eyes to her.

“Keep an eye on him – if Sherlock tells him the outcome of the case he may well relapse….”

She watched him walk away, then glanced through the window of the private room just in time to see the blood drain from John’s face.

_“He’s told him…”_


	17. Insidious

**in·sid·i·ous  (n-sd-s)**

  1. **Working or spreading harmfully in a subtle or stealthy manner**




It had been a hard winter for Sherlock’s army of homeless people, his ‘Network’, and there were times when John wished he could be three people instead of just one.  They trusted him, in ways that they didn’t trust many – certainly not members of the medical profession – and his calm demeanour coupled with his acceptance of their life choices made him, like Sherlock, one of them.

A few hours of judicious wrangling with Sarah Sawyer and her practice manager had produced a handful of flu jabs being donated for some of the older members of the network – they were the ones that were more at risk – and when John himself fell victim to a minor chest infection Sarah, knowing he would continue to work regardless of his own ills, was happy to help by prescribing him with high strength antibiotics to help him fight it off.

And it worked.  In between chasing across London in the wake of his sociopathic friend and visiting some of the dampest, seediest ‘living quarters’ the city had to offer John was able to carry on working.  Escorted by one or two of the ‘bigger’ men living on the streets John knew he could move around in safety and not be attacked for the contents of his medical bag, while Kallie made sure that he saw the worst afflicted. At the end of each evening the doctor dragged himself into the shower, ate whatever takeaway Sherlock had ordered or was left over from the previous evening, then fell into bed, exhausted. 

Meanwhile Sherlock divided his time between dragging said doctor around from crime scene to arrest site and sitting at the kitchen table dissecting pieces of human flesh and dripping various chemicals on them to see how they reacted.  He had noted John’s cough, noted the appearance of antibiotics, and then deleted the whole thing – it was obviously under control.

xXx

“Go that way John, cut him off!” Sherlock yelled, taking the one fork in the path and pointing at the other knowing John would understand what was needed and act on it.

John’s chest felt as if it was on fire, his lungs straining to suck in air as he did as his friend bid him, swerving to the left and running as fast as he could around the path straight into the oncoming villain.

They traded blows, each getting in several fierce punches, but John had the advantage of military training and by the time Sherlock joined then had his opponent face down on the floor with his arms twisted high up his back.

“What took you so long?”

“Knew you had it under control John.”  The detective smirked, watching as his friend viciously yanked the swearing thug to his feet; and looking over John shoulder added “And here comes the cavalry, tardy as ever.”

Flashing blue lights lit up their surroundings, and Greg and Sally strolled towards them, smirking at the blood oozing from John’s lip.

“Didn’t have it all your own way then Dr Watson?” Sally looked pointedly at John’s face. “Must be getting too old for this lark.”

John opened his mouth to respond but instead was overtaken by a fit of coughing, holding his aching ribs and stomach as he did so.

“John?”  Greg stepped up, concerned, but the doctor waved him off.

“Couple of lucky punches,” John wheezed, “and the remnants of a chest infection – nothing to worry about mate.”

“If you’re sure…” the police officer looked unconvinced.

“Of course he’s sure,” Sherlocks voice was scathing. “He’s a doctor. Come along John, we’re done here, I think they can manage without us now.”

Rolling his eyes John gave Greg a sympathetic look as he straightened up and hurried after the retreating figure.

Once inside a cab Sherlock sat back with a smug look on his face – another job well done!

“Hungry?”

“Actually,” John sounded hesitant. “I’d like to just go home – maybe get take out?”

John would have laughed at his friend’s expression if his body didn’t ache so much.  He knew by the narrowing of those watchful silver-grey eyes that Sherlock was trying to deduce him within an inch of his life, and he grinned a little wearily.

“I’m just too tired to go out, and too hungry to just go to bed – like I said; remnants of a chest infection.”

Not taking his eyes from John’s face Sherlock nodded and reached for his phone, texting Angelo and asking him to deliver a selection of his best dishes.

“It’ll be there almost as soon as we are.” He said turning finally to watch the passing scenery.

xXx

3 am, and this was the third time Sherlock had listened to John hurrying down from his room and locking himself in the bathroom.  It was the third time that he actually felt thankful that the bathroom was sufficiently soundproofed for him not to have to listen to whatever was happening to his friend. 

He waited – the time John spent in there lessened with each visit, and each time he came out he moved ever slower back to his room. 

This time when he came out Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway.

“What’s happening?”

John barely flinched in surprise. He looked blearily at the other man.

“Sick.” He said shortly. “Not surprising, I should’ve known better to eat on top of getting punched in the stomach, should’ve given myself more time to recover.”

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows and waited, but John wasn’t really up to taking the bait.

“And now I’m going to try to get back to sleep – unless you really wanted a blow by blow account of how sick I’ve been.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled.

“Unnecessary.”

“Good.” Climbing the stairs John headed back to bed. “G’night.”

Watching him go, Sherlock settled onto the couch and entered his mind palace, accessing all he knew about fight injuries.

xXx

“Ooo-ooo!” Mrs Hudson cooed as she walked into the flat. “Are you two still alive up here?  You’re very quiet.”

Sherlock lifted his head from the cushions.

“Is that a crime?  You usually tell us off for being too noisy.”

“Don’t you be so cheeky young man!”  There was a smile in the octogenarian’s voice. “Finding you loitering about on the couch at mid-day is nothing new, but it’s not like John to be still in bed.”

With a frown the consulting detective sat up, his eyes wandering to the staircase.

“He was unwell last night” he said, rising slowly and heading towards John’s room. “I’ll just check on him.”

With uncommon restraint Sherlock tapped gently on John’s door and peered in.

The doctor was lying on his side, awake and looking thoroughly miserable. His eyes slid towards the man standing in the doorway.

“Feel like shit.” He croaked, his throat raw and dry.

“Do you think you could keep down something light?”

The slight shake of his head was almost indistinguishable from the shudder that ran through his aching frame.

“Drink?  Tea?”

“No, nothing with dairy in, but water would be great – thanks.” John tried to smile but his face hurt too much. He closed his eyes and tried to get warm, shuffling further under the duvet.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew it was getting dark and a large glass of water had been placed on his bedside table with a couple of rich tea biscuits – he screwed up his face trying to think how he could possibly have missed them being brought in, but gave up as the barbed wire in his throat reminded him that he needed something to counteract the acid burn of vomiting through the night. 

Sitting up slightly he dragged the duvet around him, trying to hold onto the warmth that was rapidly fleeing his bones as he moved, and reached over to pick up the glass.  It was warm from being left on the side for hours, but it went down like the coolest freshest water John had ever tasted however no sooner had he drunk it he was frantically reaching for his rubbish bin and heaving painfully, regurgitating all the liquid from his stomach, finally hanging over the side of the bed and dry retching.

A slender pale hand in his peripheral vision made him flinch, and he looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him.

“I’ll take that and empty it for you, if you think you’re finished.” The younger man said, his face completely wiped of expression.

“Yeah…No…I mean, that’s fine, I’ll……”

“Don’t be boring John – if you’re through throwing up I’ll deal with this.” and he turned and whisked away with the bin, returning a short while later with it washed out.

“Thanks mate.”

“I’ll bring you some more water – sip it this time.”

John hummed in agreement, sinking down once more into the warmth of his bed.

xXx

John could hear voices but they sounded as if they were speaking underwater.  He tried to open his eyes but they seemed to be glued shut – perhaps Sherlock had been experimenting on him?  He’d take him to task over that in a minute, when he could muster up the energy.

The voices faded gradually, and he realised he didn’t want them to go.  Every bone and muscle in his body ached, and each indrawn breath felt like he was breathing in fire, and he tried to call out for help.

“Sh’lk…sh’lok…” John’s voice was weak even to his own ears, and panic seeped under his skin.

Uncoordinated as a foal and weak as a day old kitten he pushed himself to the side of the bed and attempted to stand, but he ended up sprawled face down across the mattress.

“You were right to call me.” Sarah Sawyer moved briskly into the room, placing a cool hand on John’s burning forehead. “John, can you hear me?”

“Hmmm.”

“John, we need to get you back into bed, now just relax and let Sherlock and I do all the hard work.” She looked across at Sherlock who nodded and moved round to lift John gently back up, and as Sarah pulled back the covers and straightened the bottom sheet.

“John?” she checked his eyes, temperature and blood pressure, and then hooked her stethoscope into her ears, warming the end before listening to his heart. She looked up at Sherlock.

“His heart rate’s a little high, blood pressure is lower than I would like and he’s running a fever.  You say he was sick during the night?”

“He came downstairs three times, the last time about 3am and he hasn’t moved out of this room since.  I brought him some water and he tried to have a drink a little while ago but that came straight back up”

Sarah nodded.

“I’m not happy, I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

“What can I do?” Sherlock looked unhappy and worried.

“Pack him a bag – pyjamas, wash kit that sort of thing.”

She pulled out her mobile and made the call while Sherlock pulled open John’s wardrobe and hunted for an overnight bag. He came up with a backpack, and started rummaging through John’s chest of drawers for the required clothing.

“They’ll be here soon – I’ve recommended they bring an evacuation chair because of the narrow stairways, fortunately we’re not dealing with injury so strapped into it John should be fine.”

“And what exactly are we dealing with?”  Sherlock watched as Sarah’s eyes flicked over John once more then moved back to him, clearly weighing up what had been said and what still needed to be said.

“Based on what you’ve told me, I think we’re dealing with a fairly severe case of sepsis…”

“But how….?  Surely he would have realised…”

“Depends.” She laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm and they both looked back at the shivering figure in the bed. “He had that chest infection yet he carried on walking the streets to look after your homeless friends.  And you won’t convince me for one moment that he’s been taking it easy like I recommended when I gave his the antibiotics.”

“Well, he still went out with Kallie and some of the others…”

“I meant running around after you.” But there was no accusation in her voice, just resignation, and the acceptance that this was the sum of John’s life.

The sound of the doorbell forestalled any further conversation, and Mrs Hudson’s voice was heard directing the ambulance crew to ‘follow the stairs all the way up to the top floor’.

In a flurry of activity the ambulance technician strapped John into the chair with blankets wrapped around him while Sarah gave brief details of her diagnosis to the paramedic, explaining that Sherlock would be travelling with them, and could give them all the necessary general information about the patient.

Despite using the chair it was still a bit of a struggle to deal with the narrow stairs, and after a somewhat hair-raising journey down they finally transferred John to a stretcher and set off in the direction of St Mary’s hospital.

xXx

Sherlock insisted on staying until John had been made comfortable and was settled into a high dependency ward.  He wasn’t considered at great enough risk to put in Intensive Care, but that option was left open should he fail to improve or deteriorate further.

Standing at the foot of John’s bed he looked at the mass of wires leading to various monitors, the intravenous high dosage antibiotics feeding through the cannula in his hand as well as intravenous fluids, and the oxygen tubes fed up through his nose.  He was asked to vacate the room while a nurse catheterised the unconscious doctor, and explained that this was so they could keep a check on his urine production and output, to catch any kidney issues before they became a problem.

And into the early hours of the morning he was finally advised to go home and come back at visiting time the next day.  He was reluctant to leave but the staff nurse was adamant, pointing out that his presence was not really fair to the other patients in the ward.

So he left, choosing not to catch a cab but to walk the one and a half miles home. 

xXx

Mrs Hudson accompanied Sherlock to the hospital the next day, taking with her some small cakes and biscuits she had baked the night before while waiting for news. 

Both were pleased to see him looking more lucid, and although the monitors were still linked up and the drips still attached it was a great improvement.

“You frightened us half to death!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, fussing over him and making sure he was comfortable.

“Sorry.” He whispered, his voice still rough and tired sounding.

“And so you should be.” Sherlock sat on the side of the bed, ignoring their landlady’s tutting at his behaviour. “I mean John, what kind of doctor lets himself get into this kind of state?”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson smacked his arm, but John was far from offended.

He smiled sleepily.

“One who doesn’t listen to his own good advice?”

“Precisely.” Watching as the doctor’s eyes fluttered closed Sherlock  leant forward and added softly “Just make sure you start taking that advice now, you just can’t stay in here forever – after all, who else would stop me from blowing up the flat?”

John however, heard none of this as he slipped deeper into a peaceful sleep.

With softly spoken promises to be back later his visitors left, turning just once in the doorway of the ward to look back at the sleeping figure, both happy in the knowledge that he would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I based John’s symptoms on the ones my husband presented with before being admitted with severe sepsis.


	18. Should My Life Take FLight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This method was chosen by J Watson-Holmes, one of my readers on FFNet

There were times when I hated this – the tension between Sherlock and the members of Greg’s team.

I know they’ve been well trained to do their jobs, but he’s made it his life’s mission to know everything there is to know about everything, and neither side was willing to give an inch.

And it’s not that he does. Know everything, that is – I’ve only to say ‘heliocentricism’ and he’ll sneer and change the subject or walk away.

“John, don’t stand about daydreaming.” Sherlock hissed, breaking into my thoughts. I looked across to see Greg directing his people to spread out, and my flatmate all but tapping his foot with impatience.

“Okay, I’m with you.”

“I hope so John; until I get some more data on this particular criminal we can’t afford a lapse of concentration.”

He turned and walked into the shadowy depths of the old hospital building, long since closed down and left to crumble.

Once out of sight of the police officers I slipped my gun from the waistband of my jeans, happier in the knowledge that whatever was thrown at us I could at least offer a degree of protection….. That thought was to haunt me for quite a while after the event.

Across the hallway and through what was left of the internal half-glass wall, I could see Donovan moving stealthily along, parallel to Sherlock and me, keeping low and close to the walls.

“I can’t see Lestrade.” Sherlock whispered.

“Upstairs with Greenaway,” I replied. “And a couple more of his boys are on the top floor.”

The only reply was a half-hearted grunt and I spun round to see him standing – or rather leaning against the wall, staring at the bloodied arrowhead that had passed through his upper arm, the shaft lodging there in the flesh and muscle.

“Christ!” I reached out to steady him, put him safely behind me and out of immediate danger while I tried to spot the archer, but suddenly everything was happening at once.

As if she was shouting at me from underwater I heard Donovan’s voice scream a warning just seconds before I saw the woman loose her second arrow. I didn’t even have time to take aim before my chest exploded with fire and my senses started to play with my mind.

Over the sounds of both Donovan’s and Sherlock’s voices I could hear the squelch of the arrowhead tearing through my body, the hiss of air as sliced it through part of my lung and as I fell, my gun clattering uselessly from my hand, I could feel my chest cavity filling with blood.

All around me there seemed to be noise, shouting, running feet, yet my awareness drilled down to my immediate vicinity, to the two people who – I felt – were holding me together. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t draw enough breath, but as I looked up through blurring vision I saw two pairs of eyes, the chocolate brown frightened eyes of Sally Donovan, and the steady, grey-green-blue of Sherlock’s commanding gaze, and the last thing I heard was his voice telling me to hold on, that help was coming.

xXx

I would have laughed – if only it had been possible. Let’s face it, the name Sherlock Holmes  wasn’t synonymous with good bedside manner or caring for the sick, but I would swear the first sound I heard as the medication started to wear off was his voice telling me all about the treatment they had given me, breaking off suddenly to snarl at someone who was out of my range of vision, something about respect, and peace and quiet.

The reason I couldn’t laugh? Assisted breathing. Sherlock had even taken the time to learn all the technical terminology and names of the machinery being used – obviously someone had told him it helps to talk to unconscious patients.

The snarling? Whoever it was that I couldn’t see had suggested that maybe I would be better off with someone more…..sympathetic….and as I cracked my eyes open I saw Mycroft moving towards my bed.

As ever, Sherlock knew the minute I opened my eyes, because he turned away from his brother and leaned into my direct line of sight.

“John. At last!” A small smile curled his lips. “I’ll ring for the nurse, she said as soon as you woke they would take out that tube.”

I reached out and grasped his hand, giving it a light squeeze to let him know I’d understood. It amazed me how pleased I felt to see that supercilious eyebrow raised in response to my action. He must have read my relief in my expression, because he rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m pleased you’re awake too. Four days – it was the longest four days that I can remember.” Peering down at me he added “and yes, we caught her. She set it all up because we were instrumental in the arrest and imprisonment of her husband.”

There was no time to say anything else as the nursing team came in and chased both Holmes brothers out while they set about removing the endotracheal tube and making me comfortable.

Now that I was awake, they made sure that I knew what damage had been done – the projectile had torn muscle, sliced open the lower quarter of my left lung and opening up the anterior intercostal vein. That had been the reason I’d felt my chest cavity filling. As they finished their work they made sure I was well aware that I was very lucky to be alive. I nodded and smiled. I knew.

“Mycroft gone?” I croaked as Sherlock was allowed back into the room. My friend didn’t answer, instead he lifted a glass of cool fresh water to my lips, easing the drinking straw between the cracked and dry flesh, allowing me to finally rid myself of the dry ‘hospital’ taste.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it John. They are keeping you in for another week maybe longer – I have to say it’s inconvenient to say the least.”

“Hmm.”

“And I cannot stay, not now that you are awake. They’ll be moving you to another ward.”

I nodded.

“I’ll come back though – they must be sure to look after you properly, you’ve already been here too long.”

His face was so pale and unhappy looking that I almost told him to ignore them and stay anyway, but I knew that would be unfair to all concerned, so I made do with beckoning him closer so that no-one else could hear what I had to say.

“I heard you – I won’t leave you on your own, at least not for long.”

“But I…”

“Asked me to stay – and I did.”


	19. Not Quite The Milk of Human Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one chosen by 221BluePoliceBox - thank you my dear, it was a bity of a challenge!

John sighed as he made himself a cup of tea. The text from Sherlock had said that he would soon have the case solved – it was a mere five – and so John didn’t need to join him but could instead go straight home from work.

“Good of you.” John had muttered seeing the magnanimous words, but he was pleased none the less and put his down time to good use.

Taking his tea and the remains of a packet of biscuits John sat in his armchair and picked up the newspaper, settling in to enjoy the peace.

Several hours later John found himself bent over the toilet retching as his flatmate could be heard thundering up the stairs.

“John? John I believe I could have used your…. What are you doing?”

Grey faced John peered out of the bathroom.

“Sick.” He said succinctly.

Sherlock stepped back, nodding.

“Something you ate?”

“Only had a cuppa.”

Those four words stopped Sherlock in his tracks

 “Tea?”

If John heard the thread of concern in his friend’s voice he was too busy rinsing his mouth out to take note, so it was a complete shock to find himself being bundled into his jacket when he finally emerged from the bathroom.

“Wha….”

“You need to get to hospital John.” Sherlock hurried him down the stairs. “I forgot to tell you that I’d been experimenting with the milk.”

Not giving John a chance to say anything Sherlock hustled him out of the door and into a cab. However, it was sinking into the doctor’s brain exactly what he had been told, and as the cab pulled away from the curb heading for St Mary’s hospital he turned angrily to the man sitting beside him.

“Experimenting?” he ground out through gritted teeth. “You used the milk to do experiments with? And you didn’t think to label it? Or tell me?  Sherlock….”

Anything else he might have said was swallowed as his put his hand over his mouth in an effort to stave off another wave of nausea. As the meagre contents of his stomach hit the cab floor the driver braked hard and turned in his seat.

“Oi! What the fuck?”

“Oh God!”

Sherlock glanced at the mess on the floor then looked up at the driver.

“You will be recompensed for your loss of earnings, but unless you move quickly you could well find yourself with a dead man in your cab!”

Despite his anger the driver looked once more at John, turned back to the steering wheel and pulled back out into the traffic.

“John, I’m ringing ahead to let them know….”

“What was it? What was in the milk?”

“Rat poison.” Sherlock admitted, shamefaced.

“Vitamin K. That’ll help….tell them….” Another wave of nausea, this time there was nothing but blood-threaded bile.

Frantically speaking to the A&E receptionist Sherlock gave them as much information as he could, and as the cab pulled up at the hospital door they were met by a couple of nurses.

“’Ere,what about my cab?” the driver called as Sherlock went to follow them inside.

“Ah,” he stopped and handed over a business card. “get it professionally cleaned, work out the loss of earnings, and contact this number.”

Inside the A&E department John was in a curtained cubicle talking to a doctor who – Sherlock knew – was an old friend. As he hovered outside the room, suddenly conscious of his part in this debacle, John waved him in.

“Sherlock, this is Charlie Phillips, he’s an old buddy from med school. Charlie, my flatmate Sherlock Holmes.”

Charlie offered his hand.

“John tells me it’s lucky you came home when you did and realised the mistake he’d made mixing up the bottles.”

“I…er….”

“Yeah,” John chuckled as Charlie turned back to take a blood sample. “You’d think I’d be used to double checking by now eh?”

“If you blog’s anything to go by…”

“Oh you don’t know the half of it.” John gave Sherlock a look that told him to keep quiet then looked back at Charlie. “Oi, don’t take it all….”

“Don’t be a baby Watson, now you sit there and behave and I’ll be back in a bit.” Hurrying out of the cubicle Charlie took the blood sample straight to the haematology department.

Laying back on the bed John waved Sherlock to the only chair in the cubicle.

“Why did you say that?”

“What, that it was my fault?” John turned his head. “You should take a good look in the mirror Sherlock, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so lost and unhappy – somehow I don’t think you’ll be that careless with your experiments again.”

“John I’m sorry….”

“Yeah well, next time label the bloody bottles – or better still try your experiments in proper flasks and keep them safe.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Charlie was returning.

“Okay John, we’re going to admit you for observation.”

John nodded.

“Is there anything you’ll need?” Sherlock asked

“Pyjamas….oh, and my phone please.”

“I’ll go now – anything else?”

John shook his head.

“Nah that’s…thanks Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked carefully at the man lying on the examination bed.

“No John, thank _you_.”

 


	20. Rocky Road to Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this way of nearly killing John Watson I need to thank Guinevere81...and only another 81 stories to go so that's rather appropriate...Lol!  
> Enjoy!

The effects of the accusations against Sherlock were far-reaching, and indiscriminate as to whom they damaged.

Greg had been ‘stepped sideways’, from homicides and high profile cases to overseeing public safety, watching for signs of civil unrest across the London Metropolitan area, and possible radical activities in religious hotspots nationwide.

Despite being the ones that alerted the Chief Superintendent to the possibility of Sherlock being the perpetrator of so many crimes, their tardiness in bringing these to light meant that neither Donovan nor Anderson would be likely to gain another worthwhile promotion. She would forever remain a Detective Sergeant and he – although already a Senior Forensics Officer – would always be doomed to field work, never to rise to the exalted ranks of Chief Forensic Scientist.

And John.

Good, honest, _loyal_ John.

Sarah had done her best, but patients refused to see him.

Mike had tried – and failed – to get him a post at Bart’s. The management were very sorry (as, it seemed, was everybody with whom John came into contact these days) but they couldn’t offer him a position without references, and Dr Sawyer had been compelled to give the reasons why she had let go such a good and hardworking doctor when her practice was in sore need of experience staff.

So John retreated to 221B in the knowledge that he couldn’t afford to live there for much longer – as neither his bank balance nor his sanity (surrounded by so much that was purely Sherlock) could stand the strain.

He never bothered to turn the television on, newspapers were a thing of the past and he rarely answered his mobile, so he was unaware of the public feeling about the crimes of his late flatmate.

xXx

“Streatham, what’s this report here for?” Greg waved a sheaf of papers at his hapless new Detective Sergeant.

The poor boy was dumbstruck! He’d not wanted this posting, but it was the only position open for the newly promoted officer.

He looked up into the weary hazel eyes and stammered

“I….i….it’s….”

“Oh for goodness sake! I’m not going to bite you Streatham, but I run the risk of totally losing my patience.” He ran his fingers through hair that had grown significantly greyer in the six months since Sherlock’s swan-dive.

The younger man took a deep breath.

“It’s a report of some electronic traffic that has come to our attention, Sir.”

“Then surely it should have been sent on to the Cyber Crimes unit.” Greg reached across to place the paper back into his sergeant’s in-tray but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“Sir, the internet chatter in this report is all about stirring up trouble for anyone who used the services of Sherlock Holmes.”

Greg froze, but Streatham carried on regardless.

“There are parts of this message that are positively inflammatory, calling for justice for all the men, women and especially children that suffered because of him.”

“Shit!” Looking more closely at the report Greg slumped against an empty desk.

“Look at page four, Sir.” Streatham stood and leant in beside his superior, pointing as the older man turned the page, to the pertinent paragraph, and one name, mentioned several times in the transcript, stood out as if lit in neon letters a foot high – John Watson.

xXx

Not taking his eyes from the paper in front of him, Mycroft flicked a switch on his desk intercom.

“No interruptions for at least 30 minutes.” He instructed his assistant, not waiting for her confirmation before switching the communication device off again. He reached for his telephone.

“Kes see on?” a baritone voice spoke in Estonian.

“Do you not have caller ID on your mobile brother mine?” Mycroft asked with a degree of asperity. “Must we do this every time we speak?

“We shouldn’t even be speaking.” Sherlock responded snappily. “What do you want?”

“Our cyber teams have picked up some internet traffic seemingly coming from central London, but so far we’ve not managed to lock it down and locate the source.”

“And I assume you have a reason for telling me this? Other than to prove that though clever, even your people aren’t infallible.”

“Sherlock this is no time for petty point-scoring. Somebody here in London appears to be stirring things against you and the people you worked with, Lestrade and the Met…..”

“I’m sure that’s not the first time…..”

“And they’re making a target of John Watson.”

That silenced the young man on the other end of the phone. Mycroft could almost hear the thoughts flying through his brain.

“What do you mean, making John a target?” Sherlock asked eventually.

“They have said that he must have been part of your scheming, that he is as guilty as you.”

“I need to see that transcript.”

“No, there is no safe way to get it to you.”

“Then read it to me – verbatim – I want nothing left out.”

With a sigh, Mycroft picked up the report once more and started to read.

xXx

With dull eyes John glanced at his phone as, for the third time in an hour it started to flash. He had learned shortly after Sherlock’s fall (because it _had_ to be a fall hadn’t it? Sherlock wouldn’t have jumped; he was too clever for that.) that if he didn’t put it on ‘silent’, the constant ringing would worry Mrs Hudson, she would fear the worst if he didn’t answer it and he couldn’t do that to her, not after everything else.

So he looked at the phone, knowing that by now it would have once more switched to voicemail, and wondered what was so important that Greg should be ringing in the middle of the day.

Picking up the device he dialled into his voicemails – there were three, just as he’d anticipated.

_‘John, when you get this message can you ring me back? I need to talk to you. Thanks.’_

_‘John, you okay mate? Look, it’s fairly important you get back to me ASAP.’_

_‘John, I know you’re there, you never go anywhere without your phone. If you don’t ring me back within ten minutes I’m coming to Baker Street in a rapid response vehicle – think how Mrs Hudson would feel about that!’_

And John smiled. Even though he sounded desperately worried – or perhaps because he was desperately worried, Greg knew which words to choose in order to get John’s attention. He glanced at his watch. Any time now Greg would be heading for the door and the keys to a blue light vehicle.

He dialled Greg’s number.

“John! Thank fuck for that! I really didn’t want to frighten Mrs H but I was getting worried mate – where’ve you been?”

“Nowhere.” John answered truthfully. “Just couldn’t be arsed to answer my phone.”

“Thanks.” Greg’s wry chuckle sounded down the phone line, a mere ghost of his normal good humour. “I take it you’re at home then? I need to talk to you.”

Glancing out of the window John noted the race of grey clouds across the sky, windy but not yet raining. The walk to the Lamb and Flag in Covent Garden would probably do him good.

“Tell you what; I’ll meet you in…..”

“No, I’ll come over.” Greg interrupted. “This can’t be discussed in a pub.”

“Oh?”

“See you in about fifteen minutes.” And with that the older man hung up, leaving John to wonder what could warrant such secrecy and haste.

With a shrug John gave the room a cursory tidy up and then went to put the kettle on.

xXx

Greg watched as John closed his eyes to conceal the pain this latest piece of news had caused him. Of all the people to accuse of deliberately setting out to deceive and hurt others, John Watson was the least likely candidate he had ever met.

It was not that John wouldn’t hurt a fly – no, he was after all a soldier as well as a doctor – it was that John was not the type to do so for personal gain, his or his friend’s.

“Okay.” The doctor said, slowly leaning forward in his chair and resting his forearms along his thighs. “What do you propose to do about it? Do you know who’s doing it, or where they are?”

“The Cyber Crimes unit is trying to trace its origins with very little success, but this copy was sent to my sergeant…”

“The new guy? Streatham?”

“Yeah, he spotted your name on it and made sure I saw it, otherwise I’d have just flung it back.”

John sighed and reached for his tea.

“Maybe you should’ve done.” He said with a shrug, raising his eyebrows at Greg’s look of surprise. “Let’s face it, since I met Sherlock and started working with him half the world’s been out to get me – that the other half should join in after his d..death should be no surprise.”

The police officer tried to pretend he hadn’t heard the way John stumbled over the word. He knew it wasn’t easy for him to come to terms with – after all his best friend had committed suicide right in front of him – but Greg had hoped that time would have made at least talking about it a little easier. It seemed not.

“I had wondered about approaching Sherlock’s brother…”

“No.” John was vehement in his refusal.

“But John….”

“Do you seriously think that if your guys have picked it up, that he would need to be told?” John shook his head. “He’s got teams that would make your Cyber unit look like a gang of secondary school IT geeks – if you know about it now, his guys were aware yesterday and are monitoring it.”

Shrugging at the look of perplexity on Greg’s face John added

“And if they knew where to find whoever’s doing this, they would have shut him down.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because Mycroft cares – he cares about his brother’s reputation in a way that he didn’t when Sherlock was alive, because alive Sherlock could fight his own battles, and now he only has Mycroft – and me.”

Alarmed, Greg rose from his chair and crossed to where John sat, looking up at him blank faced.

“Shit, John mate, please, don’t do anything stupid.”

John simply cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I mean it, or for your own good I’ll have to arrest you.”

This at least made John smile – albeit relatively humourlessly.

“Another drugs bust?”

“Like that would ever work.”

Pulling on his coat Greg tried one more time.

“Look John, if not for yourself then for Mrs Hudson. She’s already lost one of ‘her boys’, don’t make it two.” He watched as his words sunk in, then added “If you go out, be careful. Vary your route, use a different supermarket, you know the routine – don’t let them catch you out.”

Ushering his friend out of the flat John agreed he would be careful, yet when he was alone once more he sat down and returned to his empty contemplation.

xXx

Despite the best efforts of both Mycroft Holmes and New Scotland Yard, the agitators had not been unearthed. For Mycroft it was a source of frustration, for Greg one of fear. 

John continued his life, such as it was, not really making that many changes to his non-existent routine. He almost smiled at the thought that someone might be waiting outside for him to come out – they’d wait a long time for that.  John had no intentions of going anywhere.

Standing at the window, he watched as Mrs Hudson made her way across the pavement and into the mini-cab that she had booked to take her to the train station. She was long overdue a visit to her sister, but before she went she had stocked John’s fridge and freezer with enough milk and frozen meals to last him until she returned. Despite his protests that she shouldn’t have, he was touched by the gesture.

As the car pulled away she turned and looked up at him. He waved, and then she was gone. Turning away he headed for the kitchen and some lunch.

The sandwich he had made sat half eaten on his plate as John lost himself in a book – a childhood favourite, The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He had just reached the part where Prof. Challenger and his team discovered the ape-like ‘missing link’ tribe when the screech of car brakes, a thud and a scream shattered the air.

Leaping up he glanced out of the window to see a crowd around a stationary car in the middle of Baker Street, and without second thought he rushed upstairs for his old army medical kit before leaping back down the steps two at a time, on down to the front hall and out of the door.

“Let me through, I’m a doctor.” He spoke clearly and loudly enough to be heard over the chattering and wailing.

The crowd parted, but to his dismay there was no patient for him to treat, just a circle of grinning faces – men, women, even some young enough still to be called children – and they were closing in on him.

The first rock hit him square on the forehead, sending him crashing helplessly to the ground. Others were also aimed at his head, and more at his body until he lost count….and lost consciousness.

This made no difference to the crowd, as the picked up the rocks they had already thrown and launched them a second, third or fourth time, and all the while they were shouting insults and threats, yelling that this was being done in the name of John’s so-called victims.

xXx

Outside number 2 Allsop Place, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan was just closing the front door, having minutes earlier finished talking to the resident about her recently stolen Old Master. As she walked to her car she heard the sounds of raised voices, and the shouting of names – Jennifer Wilson, Soo Lin Yao – names that seemed vaguely familiar to her, but her stomach knotted as she heard one particularly strident voice.

“This is for Claudette Bruhl, and little Max! If he dies Watson, you’ll wish you had too!”

‘Bruhl?’ Sally thought. ‘That was the last case Holmes worked!’ and without a thought for her own safety she raced around the corner and into Baker Street, punching out Lestrade’s number on her mobile as she ran.

The sight that met her eyes horrified her – a mob, throwing rocks and baying for blood.

Not giving her old boss a chance to question why she was ringing him, Sally shouted a quick and brutal situation report before pulling her ‘Asp’ telescopic baton from her pocket and flicking it to full size.

“Police!” she yelled at the top of her voice, running forward into the crowd. “Break it up – NOW!”

Seeing she was outnumbered, she made the most of swinging her baton to chase them away, not worrying about trying to identify any of them, more concerned that the ‘Watson’ who was being threatened could only be – on this particular street – Dr John Watson.

The attackers ran, taking off in all directions, and Sally knelt down in the road beside the still man. Calling first for medical help and police backup, she felt John’s pulse before checking his ears for signs of fluid and therefor head injury. With a sigh she noted there was no outward sign, and for that she was grateful, but he was out cold, and showed no signs of waking.

It was a relief when the ambulance arrived, and Sally could hand John into the capable hands of the paramedics. They were just strapping him onto a stretcher when Lestrade’s car screeched to a halt.

“Sally…” he was out of the car and running towards his former sergeant, fear uppermost in his mind as he saw John, unmoving, being loaded into the vehicle, his head supported by a neck brace, his face already swelling and turning dark with bruises.

“I was just round the corner,” Sally waved vaguely in the direction she had come from. “I heard someone shout the Bruhl kids’ names, and realised that something was wrong.”

“Did you see who they were?”

“A crowd, just a bloody baying mob.” She sounded as disgusted as she felt. “Poor John.”

“Yeah, well,” Greg said, not able to look the woman in the eye. “He’s been targeted.”

Making a swift decision he called to the ambulance driver who was about to close the rear doors.

“Hang on mate, I’ll go with.” He flashed his warrant card. “I know the victim.”

Without another word he climbed aboard. Sally watched as the door closed and moments later , with blue lights flashing the ambulance pulled away, their speed steady in deference to their passenger’s possible head injury.

xXx

Mycroft was surprise to see Lestrade sitting at John’s bedside in the side ward.

The doctor was still, and pale where the skin was unbruised. Nurses moved in and out of his room, checking him at regular intervals.

“It sounds trite to ask how he is.” Mycroft murmured quietly, unwilling to disturb the stillness in the room.

“They’re waiting for him to wake up.” Greg explained. “He’s been scanned, and x-rayed, he has a fractured skull, severely bruised ribs, but they believe he’s has been lucky and avoided internal injuries.”

“I assume you warned him he was being vilified on the internet?”

Lestrade turned to the British Government official with blazing eyes, angry beyond belief.

“Yes I told him!” he hissed. “And I would have come to you for assistance but he said not to – that you were probably several steps ahead of us…”

“Sadly we were confounded at every turn, but we will find them, starting with the CCTV footage of the attack.”

Suddenly all the fight went out of the older man, and he dropped his head into his hands.

“I hope so, for John’s sake.” He said softly. “None of this was of his making, yet look at him – lost his best friend, unable to get a job because of the mud sticking to him, and now this.” 

Shaking his head, bewildered, Greg asked the question that had dogged him since Sally’s initial call to him.

“What was he doing outside his flat? He wasn’t dressed for a walk, no wallet on him so he wasn’t going shopping….”

“Sergeant Donovan found his medical bag in the gutter near where he was knocked to the floor.”

“So a set up?”

“It would appear so.” Mycroft stepped up beside the bed and looked down sorrowfully. “I would not have had this happen for the world. John was my brother’s only real friend and I should have protected him.”

“So find the bastards that did this!”

xXx

This time when his mobile rang Sherlock didn’t pretend not to know the caller. He had been fretting for weeks since the initial alert to the targeting of his best friend, and frustrated at his inability to help when he received news of the attack. To come home now would be fatal, both to John and to the others he had tried to protect, but that hadn’t made the staying away and waiting any easier.

Sherlock answered the call at the third ring.

“John will be fine.” Mycroft’s first words were intended to put Sherlock’s mind at rest, but he knew that his younger sibling would need to know everything. “They are sending him home soon.”

“And?”

“The internet chatter has stopped.” He paused, thinking. “The day of the attack was the last day we picked anything up. I think someone has an idea that you’re not as dead as you pretend to be.”

“Hardly surprising when you consider how many of Moriarty’s network I have managed to take down so far, and how difficult it has suddenly become to find even the lesser parasites – this was a warning Mycroft, whoever is responsible is high up the food chain and still in London.”

“We are doing everything we can to trace whoever it was, and as soon as we do…”

“You will let me know – no matter where I am, he’s mine!”

“Sherlock must you be so very dramatic?”

“Just find him Mycroft.” And with that Sherlock cut the call. He knew his brother would find the man eventually, and that between them his brother and Lestrade would look out for John, but suddenly Sherlock couldn’t wait for this to all be over, and to return to his life and his friend at 221B.

xXx

John stared up at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of hospital life on the main ward next to his room. The sound of footsteps approaching along the corridor brought a sad little smile to his face.  Mrs Hudson.  He schooled his features into a welcoming expression.

“Oh John! How are you feeling?” She sat down and laid her hand over his, her face creased in sympathetic concern.

“A bit battered Mrs H, but nothing that a few days rest won’t cure.” He squeezed her hand. “How was your visit?”

“Oh well, you know how it is when you visit relatives – no sooner you get there than you want to be back in your own home.”

John hummed in agreement.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a short silence. “I didn’t eat that food you made for me. “

His landlady waved away his apology, wittering on about how it will all keep, and how the most important thing now was for John to get well again.

“That nice Detective Inspector said they’ll be sending you home today – is that wise?”

“Yes Mrs H, very wise. I’m going stir crazy in here and like you I’d rather be in my own home.”

Martha Hudson blushed with pleasure, pleased to hear her John once more refer to the flat as his home.

“And now you’re home they’ll let me out.” John took in her startled expression and added soothingly “You won’t be expected to look after me, but they wouldn’t let me come home to an empty house.”

Tutting indignantly, Mrs Hudson sat back to regale her tenant with tales of her visit to see her sister while they waited for the paperwork to be completed.

xXx

With Greg’s assistance John managed to make it up the stairs in less than half an hour. Every muscle in his body ached, but he was determined to make it up to the living room, and his own comfy chair.

Mrs Hudson had already made tea for them all, and was hovering as John sank down, letting the armchair take his weight with a relieved sigh.

“Thanks Mrs Hudson.” He grinned up at her as she handed him his favourite mug.

“Just remember, young man – not your nurse….” She smiled back as she handed a second mug to Lestrade.

“Do you want me to move in for a bit to help out?” Greg offered, eyeing John for signs of righteous indignation.

John shook his head, then winced at the residual pain from his injury.

“No need mate, honest. It was a minor linear fracture, it’ll heal on its own and until then I have no plans to go anywhere.”

There was something in the way John spoke that made Lestrade look up. For the first time since Sherlock’s demise he saw the old John Watson, the one that wouldn’t be pushed to do someone else’s bidding – the man that had stood up to, and for, Sherlock for two years and become that man’s rock and moral compass.

John met his gaze, and a look of understanding passed between them.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere Greg, you can be damned sure of that!”


	21. A Rash Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This method of nearly killing John was chosen by Copgirl

It was the first snow of winter.

However it wasn’t the nice, crisp, clean white stuff of fairy tales and countryside, but the grey/yellow pollution filled stuff that fell over London at least once a year and brought the city to a grinding halt.

Not that John cared.

With hands shoved deep into his pockets he trudged through the swirling flakes, head down and thinking of nothing more than to get out of his wet clothes and sit in front of the fire.

221B Baker Street was in darkness as he pushed open the front door, stamping snow off his boots before stepping inside. There was a faint light coming from Mrs Hudson’s flat, and the faint sound of the early evening news drifted from her living room. Not stopping, John climbed the stairs and let himself into the flat.

xXx

Sherlock was miserable.

It was snowing, the case (if you could call it a case) was a mere three - he had been so bored this morning he would have turned out for a one! – and John wasn’t here to make it at least a bit more bearable.

When at last Lestrade decided that his officers could cope on their own, Sherlock barely acknowledged his thanks as he stomped off to try to find a cab.

The journey home was slow and frustrating, and only the slush covered pavements and still falling snow deterred the consulting detective from leaping out at yet another traffic jam and walking the rest of the way. Instead he turned his mind to his flatmate.

John.

Good, solid, dependable John.

A small frown creased his brow, and he pulled out his phone.

_‘Tell me again why it is you still work at the surgery – SH’_

He waited.

He waited almost five minutes. And just as he picked up his phone to text again,

_‘So I can be fonancially independent – JW’_

Sherlock grimaced.

_‘Fonancially? – SH’_

_‘Sorry, cold fingers, small keyboard. Financially – JW’_

_‘Boring and unnecessary – SH’_

Another short wait, then

_‘Sherlock, you are many things to me – my lover, my mad best friend and my flatmate to name but a few, but you are not my keeper – JW’_

_“But I don’t want to keep you – SH’_

He thought for a moment, and then sent another.

_‘You know what I mean John Watson – SH’_

_‘;-D’_

Sherlock stared at the winking emoticon, a soft smile now turning up the corners of his mouth.

John knew. Of course John knew. He could read Sherlock’s mood like the detective could read a crime scene, and he would know that despite what he might say Sherlock would never try to stop him from doing the job he loved, even if it was no longer trauma surgery – this was what he trained for, this was the essence of John Watson.

_‘Traffic is horrendous but I should be home in about 10 minutes – SH’_

_‘The kettle will be on when you get here – JW’_

xXx

John pulled the blanket from the back of his chair and draped it over his shoulders. Despite wearing both pyjamas and terry robe he was feeling cold.

The previous winter, after a long and somewhat hilarious discussion about needing to use his bare fingers to deal with Sherlock’s injuries, that same man had gifted John with a pair of fingerless gloves. Tonight he had pressed them into service as they left his hands free enough to cook and make tea, and on his feet he’d slipped a couple of pairs of thick army issue socks. Still, as he stirred the basic sauce into the tuna for their pasta bake supper, he shivered.

As Sherlock hurried through the door John slipped the food into the oven, and reached out to re-boil the kettle.

“Get out of your damp clothes and get into something warm and comfy.” He called out. “Tea will be two minutes, unless you care to join me in a mug of hot chocolate?”

Sherlock stuck his head into the kitchen.

“Hot chocolate?”

“I’m cold. Well?”

“Tea for me, please.”

Putting the two drinks together he listened to the sound of his lanky lover moving around in the bedroom, carrying their drinks through to the living room as Sherlock strode through wearing pyjamas and his blue silk dressing gown.

“Aren’t you cold?” John asked, handing over the mug of tea and then clutching his own mug tightly in both hands as he sank into his chair.

“You’ve built up a good fire; it’s warm enough in here now.”

Another shiver.

“I’ll take your word for that.”

xXx

The food didn’t take long to cook, and both while they waiting and for the duration of the meal Sherlock kept up a stream of amusing – and sometimes caustic – comments about the failings of Scotland Yard, with a large dose of ‘I don’t know how they do their job without me’ thrown in. It wasn’t long before the dishes were rinsed and in the sink, waiting to be washed up and they were back sitting in front of the fire, replenished drinks to hand.

John realised as soon as he had finished eating that while the hot meal had warmed him a little from the inside, it was also doing the oddest things to his stomach.

Sherlock watched as John’s face went pale, and then turned slightly greenish.

“John?”

But the smaller man was already moving, throwing off the blanket that still sat wrapped around his shoulders, and heading for the bathroom. The door had barely closed behind him before the sound of him violently rejecting his dinner reached Sherlock’s ears. He grimaced.

“Can I get you anything?” he called through the still closed door.

John sighed as he washed his hands and dug around for toothbrush and paste.

“Just water thanks. I think I’ll head to bed.”

By the time he exited the bathroom Sherlock had put a glass of water on the bedside table, and had the kettle boiling.

“Are you still cold? Do you want a hot water bottle?”

“More achy than cold,” John rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. “Think I might be brewing up a nice dose of flu.” He grinned wryly. “Maybe I should move back upstairs for the duration?”

“No.” Sherlock was adamant. “Absolutely not. I’m not afraid of a little flu bug.”

“Yeah, tell me that again when you can’t rush out on cases because your ‘transport’ has broken down.”

Grabbing John’s shoulders Sherlock steered him into their bedroom and gently pressed him down onto the bed.

“Don’t care.” He said decisively. “You’re not going up to that cold room.”

Admitting he was too tired to argue John shrugged off his robe and slipped under the duvet, shivering slightly as the cold sheets rasped across the goose-bumps on his arms.

Returning briefly to the living room, Sherlock banked the fire and put up the fireguard, before grabbing his laptop and mobile and heading back to the bedroom.

John was already asleep, and as Sherlock slipped in beside him he noted that despite his shivers the doctor was actually quite warm. He opened the laptop and Googled flu symptoms and treatment.

xXx

For the third time in just over an hour Sherlock lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for John to return from the bathroom. Each time he had hurried out to be sick the older man had unwittingly disturbed his partner, but Sherlock was in no mind to let him know, preferring to respect John’s usual wishes to be allowed to suffer without fuss.

This visit was longer though, and although he eventually heard the bathroom door open John didn’t reappear as usual, dropping back into bed and back to sleep almost immediately.

In fact, there was no sound at all within the flat. Frowning, Sherlock got up to investigate.

At first glance, both kitchen and living room appeared unoccupied, but closer inspection revealed John’s shivering form, huddled in the corner of the couch with the blanket wrapped around him and his head propped on the arm, supported by several cushions.

“John, what’s wrong?”

For a moment he thought the doctor wouldn’t answer him, then

“God, I feel awful. I just want to curl up here and never move again.”

“Surely you’d be more comfortable in bed then?”

For a moment John thought about the other man’s words, then lifted his head painfully from the arm of the couch and looked blearily around him.

“What…? Oh, don’t answer that. I must have been sleepwalking.”

“Or confused.” Sherlock said drily, switching on the light.

John flinched and screwed up his eyes.

“Sherlock! You could have given me some warning!”

But Sherlock wasn’t listening. His eyes took in the pale complexion, the two blotches of bright colour on his cheeks, and the rigid way John held his shoulders as he struggled to his feet and shuffled towards the bedroom.

“You’re burning up.” He said, pressing the back of his hand to John’s forehead.

“Fever.” John agreed croakily. “Comes with the territory, flu and all that.” He squinted at Sherlock – but Sherlock was doing some squinting of his own, lower down, in the region of John’s clavicle where the stretched neckline of his ratty old t-shirt dipped shapelessly down.

“You have a rash.”

“No, just flu.”

Too vague. Even tired and feeling unwell John should have reacted more to that statement. Sherlock lead him back to bed and crouched down beside him.

“Lay down John, I just want to have a look at you.”

A parody of John’s usual cheeky smile flickered across his face and was gone.

“Lucky me.” He whispered as his head sunk carefully into the pillow and sleep overcame him.

Sherlock wasn’t so sure he was lucky though, because underneath his old t-shirt John had a thick rash of large red spots covering much of his torso, disappearing down below the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

Swearing softly under his breath the younger man grabbed his phone and stepped outside of the bedroom door, far enough away not to disturb John but close enough to keep an eye on him. Flipping through his contacts he put through his call.

“’lo?” Mike Stamford’s sleepy voice answered at the fourth ring.

“Mike, its Sherlock.”

“Umm.”

“Mike, are you awake?”

A moment’s silence followed.

“I am now Sherlock, what’s up?”

“It’s John. He thinks he’s got flu, but he’s developed a rash all over his chest.”

In the background Sherlock could hear sounds of Mike moving around, obviously trying not to disturb his wife.

“So, what sort of rash? Blisters, like chicken pox? Or raised, blotchy and red?”

“Raised and blotchy.”

“Hmm. Okay, now I want you to get a glass, any type of glass so long as it’s clear. Then I need you to press it over the rash and tell me what happens.”

Sherlock hurried to the cupboard in the kitchen and pulled out a small whisky tumbler. Warming the glass against his skin he knelt down and pressed it against the largest group of spots on John’s chest. John muttered in his sleep and brushed ineffectually at Sherlock’s hand, but he didn’t wake up.

“Nothing happened Mike; I can still see the rash.”

“Shit.” Mike took a deep breath. “If your brother is as omnipotent as John makes him out to be, get him to get a car to you now and take him to hospital – it sounds like he has meningitis.”

“What about…”

“An ambulance? They’ll argue it’s not a case for three nines and fob you off. Don’t take that chance Sherlock – do it!”

For a second Sherlock was left staring at his phone as Mike cut the call, and then quickly called Mycroft.

xXx

Sherlock looked up as Mycroft strolled into the relative’s waiting room.

“I only needed your car.” He said ungratefully. “Not you.”

“Alas brother dear, we do not always get what we want, do we?”

The younger man returned to his contemplation of the floor tiles – generic, cheap but easy to keep clean in an environment that required strict infection control.

“How is he?” Mycroft asked after a short while.

“They won’t let me in yet. Blood tests have been taken, and intravenous antibiotics have been set up, and they’ve told me not to go anywhere because they need to talk to me.” His expression was scathing – as if he would leave John to their tender mercies.

“And they’ve told you nothing?”

“For God’s sake Mycroft!”

A shapely eyebrow raised, but the effect was lost on Sherlock – he had leapt to his feet and was busy pacing up and down from the window to the door and back again.

“Working yourself into a frenzy will do nothing to aid the good doctor’s recovery.”

“Frenzy? Mycroft you have no idea…”

“Sherlock…”

Whatever else Mycroft might have added was lost as a white coated doctor stepped into the room.

“Mr Holmes?”

“Yes.” The brothers both answered.

“Oh. Mr _Sherlock_ Holmes?” he said, checking the name on the form on his clipboard. “Next of kin to Dr John Watson?”

“That’s me.” Sherlock stepped forward.

“Ah.” The doctor smiled. “You live with Dr Watson I understand.” There was no hint of censure there, more an underlying thread of concern. If he had hoped to keep his concern from the two men he was far wide of the mark.

The instant the doctor opened his mouth both Holmes brothers knew the situation was not good.

“Doctor…” Mycroft looked down his nose and read the man’s name badge. “…Carson, we would appreciate if you get to the point. Neither my brother nor I are particularly patient men when it comes to withholding pertinent information.” He glared meaningfully. “So, the facts if you please?”

Carson waved them back into their seats, not meeting either man’s gaze. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile – the good doctor was skilled in dealing with recalcitrant relatives, and hid his strength beneath a humble demeanour.

“Mr Holmes,” Carson looked at Sherlock. “You were right to bring Dr Watson in so quickly. Bacterial meningitis can escalate rapidly, and the risk of complications increases the longer it is left untreated.”

He waited for a sign that the other man understood before continuing.

“Your partner is very poorly, so we have started him on intravenous antibiotics and a steroid based medication to help reduce the swelling around his brain.”

“Swelling?” Sherlock looked horrified.

“Inflammation of the meninges or membranes that surround the central nervous system is an immune response, but we have started the treatment and I’m confident that we are ahead of the game so to speak.”

“When will you know for sure?”

“We’ve taken bloods and have performed a lumbar puncture – the results will confirm our diagnosis, and give us a point from where we can start to tailor the medication to target specific issues.”

“And in the meantime?” Mycroft asked.

“We will move him into the ICU where he can be monitored constantly, and watch for any problems arising.”

“I want to stay with him.”

“We have a fairly open policy regarding visiting,” Carson responded. “But overnight we have no relatives…”

“I think you’ll find,” Mycroft didn’t raise his voice, but the doctor sat up and took notice nonetheless. “That you can make an exception in the case of my brother and his partner. If you have an available private cubicle, then that is where you will take Dr Watson, and once he is settled my brother will join him.”

“Well…”

Mycroft raised elegant eyebrows and stared.

“Actually I need your brother to stay here for a while anyway.”

“I’m right here.” Sherlock snarked sulkily.

“Mr Holmes, we need to give you a quick check up, and I’m afraid a rather hefty dose of antibiotics just to be on the safe side.”

“Is that necessary?”

“It’s a precaution. You’ve been in close proximity to Dr Watson, in your own words he cooked your dinner, made you tea, despite the fact that he had been poorly all evening – it’s unlikely that you have contracted meningitis, but we don’t want to take chances. When did you last have antibiotics?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“About two years ago, maybe a bit longer.” Sherlock always left things like that to John – he would have been able to tell them when, what for, how much and even the brand name, such was his care of the detective, but that was no use to them now, with John currently being settled into the Intensive Care Unit.

The doctor nodded.

“Right then, if you’ll just come with me.”

Mycroft also stood, following the two men out to the small treatment room.

“Do you want me to bring you anything from your flat?” he asked as Sherlock was greeted by a young Asian nurse.

Sherlock shook his head. He had dressed quickly while waiting for the car to collect them, and as he didn’t intend sleeping he knew he would be comfortable enough in his shirt and trousers.

“Then I’ll leave you here.” Mycroft paused as Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at him. “Do keep me informed of John’s health, won’t you?”

The younger Holmes brother didn’t reply – Mycroft would probably know the minute John’s status changed for good or ill, he just said these things as a matter of form. Turning back to the nurse he swiftly rolled up his sleeve.

xXx

When Sherlock glanced up at the clock he became convinced that the hands had been glued in place – it still said a quarter past three – but as he returned his gaze to John’s peacefully sleeping face a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. He flinched and looked up to see a pretty red-headed nurse smiling down at him.

“I’m sorry Mr Holmes,” she said quietly “I did call your name but you didn’t hear me.”

Sherlock frowned up at her, confused.

“You’ve been sitting there staring at Dr Watson for 12 hours straight.” The nurse – Chloe according to her name badge – gestured to the tray that was sitting on the table at the end of John’s bed. “This is the second meal we’ve brought in for you, as requested by your brother. You should try and eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

It came out as a croak, and Chloe laughed at him, a gentle, friendly laugh.

“Well, at least drink the cup of tea.” She said. “You’re lucky, in here you get tea and coffee made for you in the staff kitchen, rather than brought round on the trolley.

When Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the thought of decent tea Chloe leaned a little closer and lowered her voice a little more.

“I even sneaked you some digestives from Sister’s special stash!”

Reaching for his tea, the young man tucked heartily into the small pile of biscuits and washed them down with the still hot beverage, all the while watching as the nurse adjusted the machine feeding oxygen to John via a nasal cannula.

“John,” she spoke to the still unconscious man. “I’m reducing the oxygen a little; Dr Carson wants to see how you go with a little less support.”

Next she moved to withdraw several small vials of blood. With each different operation she performed, she told John what she was doing and why.

“Does it make a difference, talking to him?”

“Even though he doesn’t know who I am, he can probably hear what I’m saying.” Chloe explained as she adjusted the medication next, telling John as she did so. “It means that he won’t worry when he feels me moving around him.”

Sherlock nodded, looking back at his partner.

“Right John, that’s me done.” She smiled. “Now, your other half is sitting here waiting for you. Don’t keep him waiting too long.” And with another friendly pat on Sherlock’s shoulder she collected the blood samples and slipped away.

Standing up Sherlock leaned a little closer to John, his fingers reaching gingerly to touch John’s cheek.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, then frowned, feeling more than a little stupid. After a couple of minutes he added “I didn’t expect you to be warm – no that’s stupid! You’re not dead!”

He sat back down, letting his hand slide down to grasp John’s.

“I’m not good at this sort of thing John, talking about emotions. I don’t know how to say…John I…” Frustrated he hung his head. It was going to be a long day.

xXx

“For a long time the dwarves stood in the dark before the door and debated…”

John recognised the voice but the words, while familiar, seemed totally out of place. Screwing up his eyes, he peered out through slits of eyelids, the harsh lights temporarily blinding him.

“John?”

The story stopped and a shadow fell over him, muting the light. He opened his eyes a little more and looked up at the blurred figure above him.

“I’ll call the nurse.”

Putting voice and face together still didn’t seem right and he stared a little harder as Sherlock twisted slightly to press a call button somewhere out of John’s range of vision.

“Drink?” He croaked.

“When the nurse gets here. How are you feeling?”

John’s face said it all. Despite nearly thirty six hours sleep he was exhausted and although he clearly understood where that he was in hospital the reason for a moment escaped him.

Turning back Sherlock saw his confusion and took his hand once more.

“Not flu John, meningitis. Thanks to Mike we managed to prevent…” he choked, blinking hard as his vision blurred.

“Hey.” John squeezed his hand. “’s okay.”

“Hello John.” A different nurse this time. “I imagine you’d like something to take that nasty dry mouth away.” She held a small cup of water with a straw towards Sherlock, and he took it without acknowledging her, nodding absently as she added “Just don’t let him drink it too quickly.”

With infinite care he held the straw to John’s lips, prepared to pull it away if the other man tried to take too much at once, but John’s sleepy blue eyes were examining Sherlock’s face and he was far too busy taking in everything his partner’s expression could tell him to do more than take the occasional sip of the cold water.

Eventually he pulled away, and Sherlock turned to put the glass down. When he turned back John had raised his hand, and he reached up to run his fingertips through the stubble shadowing the younger man’s jaw.

“You’ve been here all the time.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t have to be a deductive genius to recognise the rumpled look of a sleepless night spent in an uncomfortable hospital chair.

“Where else should I be? Let’s face it John, who else would take the time to read Tolkien to you while you slept the day away?”

 


	22. Hell or High Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Old Ping Hai for selecting this method of nearly disposing of our favourite doctor...

John spluttered. Then he coughed. He vomited large amounts of water before finally – and much to the relief of his friend – he groaned and tried to push himself off the bathroom floor.

Everything was a blur as Lestrade lifted him to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, wrapping a towel around him to preserve his dignity, and John could hear him asking questions but it felt as if his ears were filled with water, every sound seemed to bubble around him.

Pushing wet hair from his eyes John stared first at the bath, half-filled as it was with warm water, and then at the wet tiled floor. He frowned, confused. After all, it had started as just a day just like any other…

xXx

From about two in the afternoon the tide of patients exhibiting cold-like symptoms was beginning to wear his patience thin.  After countless repetitions of “We can’t give you anything for a cold” or “No, the flu jab doesn’t give you the flu, nor is it responsible for the cold you have now” he was feeling distinctly fed up, and was wishing the time away to the end of surgery.

It was late when John finally arrived back at the flat to discover that Sherlock was out – where he had no idea, as the genius never thought to send him a text or leave him a note – so he made himself a cuppa while deciding whether to shower or relax in a long, soothing bath.

The bath won out. John ached all over from restraining his impulse to strangle one or two people that had insisted that they needed antibiotics, so he started the bath running while he nipped upstairs to undress and grab his dressing gown.

Back downstairs, he heard the sound of the front door close, the rapid beat of Sherlock’s footsteps up the stairs, and then an almighty crash as the flat door burst open.

“John! John where are you? Stop hiding from me!” The deep baritone rang through the flat.

Turning the taps off John frowned.

“I’m not hiding from you, I’m about to get in the bath!” he opened the door. “If you need the loo before…”

He got no further. Sherlock’s face was twisted with hate, a snarl marring his handsome features as he spat venomous accusations at his flatmate. John took a step back and tried to slam the bathroom door but he was not quick enough.

Sherlock pounced, unbalancing the ex-soldier and spinning him around. With a swift kick he knocked John’s legs out from under him, and despite his best efforts to prevent Sherlock from hurting him John found himself being pushed face first into the bathwater.

Somehow, as he was struggling to free himself from Sherlock’s murderous rage John’s dressing gown was ripped off him, the tattered remains flung aside as the younger man pushed his head under the water.

With as much force as he could muster, John pushed back, earning himself an opportunity to take a deep, gasping breath, but in the next instant earning bruised – if not cracked – ribs as he was shoved against the side of the bath and his head pushed once more under the water.

There was never any doubt that John could hold his own in a fight, but Sherlock had the advantage of both surprise and position, standing above the fallen man and using his full body weight to hold him down.

So all-consuming was his rage that Sherlock didn’t hear when, for the second time that evening, the flat door burst open.

xXx

At about the time that John was cursing his patients’ lack of common sense Sherlock received a text from an unknown number.

_‘Mr Holmes, I have a case that needs your help. Could you meet me at Caffe Nero outside Euston Station. Gregson.’_

Although not acquainted with his mobile number, the consulting detective was well aware of the Detective Inspector who seemed to be in competition with Lestrade for the best clear-up rate within his division.  Gregson had only asked him for help once before, calling in person at Baker Street to offer him a case that turned out to be quite a respectable seven, so sending a swift response – _‘ten minutes’_ -  he pulled on his coat and scarf and hurried out of the door.

On arrival at the café however, it was not Gregson that awaited him. Instead, the only obvious person was a gentleman sitting in a secluded corner with a good view of the door and two coffee cups in front of him. He rose as Sherlock approached.

“Mr Holmes, thank you for coming.” He held out his hand, but Sherlock ignored it in favour of deducing the man.

“You are a doctor, of good if somewhat impoverished family. Had we met a hundred years ago I would have said you were trying to repair your family fortunes, but that is so Edwardian is it not?” Both men sat down, and the detective continued. “I don’t believe you have asked me here to take a case, you look far too nervous so, am I here so that you can threaten me?”

“No Mr Holmes,” The man smiled and indicated the cup of black coffee on the table in front of his guest. “Please, drink your coffee, and I will explain who I am and why I’ve asked you here.”

Sherlock sniffed at the coffee before taking a cautious sip. As usual it was over roasted and almost tar like. He added two sugars and took another, larger, sip.

“Good. Now, my name is Dr Graham Roylott, and my stepdaughter is trying to ruin my good name by spreading the vilest rumours about me.”

An elegant eyebrow slanted upwards, another sip of coffee taken.

“And you need me because…?”

“Oh I don’t need you Mr Holmes, I just want to advise you that I have it on good authority that she, my stepdaughter, intends to consult you with a view to blackening my name further, and to warn you…”

“Warn me?”

“Yes warn you, that should you take the case I will destroy both you and your friend, the inestimable Dr Watson.”

Sherlock choked back a laugh.

“And you assume that I will take heed of your threat do you?”

“You would be well advised to.”

With a shake of his head Sherlock stood and swallowed the rest of his coffee.

“I thank you for the refreshments, and the amusing discussion, but I fear you underestimate me if you think that threats will deter me.  Should your stepdaughter approach me to take the case I will do so willingly – in fact I might even do it for nothing.” He leaned down to speak closely into the other man’s ear. “Oh foolish of you to meddle – I might not have been interested had we not had this conversation, now I will wait to hear your name.” And with a swirl of black woollen Belstaff Sherlock strode away.

Every black cab that passed him as he walked out towards Euston Road was already taken, and as he had no urgent experiments awaiting his attention nor any promising looking cases looming Sherlock decided to walk back to Baker Street.

By the time he reached the gates of Regents Park, opposite Great Portland Street, he started to notice that the coffee had left a strange, bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

Turning sharp right, he walked through the ornate iron gates and headed across the park, thinking that maybe he would stop at one of the many tea rooms on the way to get a drink of water – anything to take the taste away. That was his last rational thought.

xXx

Mycroft was going through the latest reports of covert Soviet activities in London, shaking his head at their ineptitude. He had already rooted out the decoy spies, and made a big show of following their movements, while his best people were on the case of the real threat.

A soft buzzing interrupted his thoughts, and Mycroft lifted the telephone receiver. As he listened, his expression changed from unconcerned to alert and worried, and dropping the handset back on its cradle he strode purposefully from the room.

In the CCTV control room Penniston was manipulating a set of cameras in the Regents Park/Baker Street area.

“What is he up to now?” Mycroft demanded, glancing at the screens.

His brother was moving rapidly through the park, almost at the Baker Street exit, but his movements were not the smooth, controlled movements that generally characterised Sherlock Holmes – his steps were jerky, and his head turned rapidly left and right as if looking at something, or someone, that the cameras couldn’t see.

“I’m not sure Sir,” Penniston replied carefully. “We picked him up as he entered the park – one of our suspect Russians is there too -” He pointed to another bank of screens being monitored by Latimer. “- and we were just going to shift focus when he started behaving like that.”

They watched as Sherlock stopped dead on in the gateway and spun around, lashing out at nothing, then turning and sprinting off through the traffic towards home.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a familiar number.

“Lestrade.” The voice sounded resigned, as if he knew no good could come of this particular call.

“Inspector, you may wish to make haste to 221B Baker Street – my brother seems to be…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “…not at all himself. I believe Dr Watson may appreciate some discrete assistance.”

Greg sighed. “I’ll head over now.”

For a long moment Mycroft continued to stare at the CCTV monitors…

xXx

Draping a second towel around John’s shivering shoulders Greg waited for him to regain his equilibrium.

“How do you feel?” He asked as he saw John’s eyes finally clear and look up at him.

“Like my flatmate tried to drown me?” The croaked response lilted upwards as a question.

Greg glanced out of the bathroom door to where Sally and Detective Constable Greenaway had Sherlock handcuffed and pinned, writhing and yelling, on the floor.

“I think he’s drugged to the eyeballs.” Sally said, her face blank of any kind of expression. “We’ve called an ambulance.”

“Shit.”

John laughed a little at Greg’s expletive.

“Not coke.” He said softly. “Wrong kind of reaction.”

“Are you sure?” Greg looked at the man huddled on the toilet seat.

“You’ve seen him high Greg, tell me if you can that he was ever that unreasonably violent.”

The three officers all looked down at the prisoner. John spoke again.

“Greg, can you get me some clothes from my room, mate? I’m going with him to the hospital.”

“Is that wise?” Greenaway asked.

“I’ll need a check-up anyway.” John looked down at his chest, gently prodding his ribs. “I think he cracked my ribs against the side of the bath.”

Greg nodded and hurried upstairs. Sally continued to look at John.

“Problem?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter.

She nodded her head towards his left shoulder.

“That’s why you were invalided out, isn’t it?” she asked.

John met her questioning gaze head on.

“It is.”

“Jesus. Looks bad.”

“It was Sally, but it’s over and done now – try to forget about it.”

The Detective Sergeant frowned and looked like she was about to say something more, but the look in John’s eyes stopped her. He nodded, and stood up, clutching the towels around him, and waited for Greg to bring his clothes.

xXx

John looked up from his cup of coffee to see Mycroft making his way between the tables of the hospital cafeteria. He stood to greet him.

“I have you to thank for saving my life.” He said with a smile.

“Don’t mention it.” Mycroft waved him back into his seat, and with a grimace flicked his handkerchief over the seat opposite before sitting down. “What news of my brother?”

John blew out a heavy breath.

“We’re still waiting on blood test results,” He said. “But my guess is that someone dosed him with LSD. God alone knows what he thought was going on – seemed to think I was deliberately hiding from him, then flew at me screaming all kinds of accusations! Caught me off-guard.” The admission was made ruefully, and Mycroft smiled at that.

“You are not superman, John, you were a soldier – as fallible as the next…”

“Still not the point.” John argued without much heat.

They sat in silence for a while, each immersed in their own thoughts.

“I’m afraid I cannot stay.” The older Holmes said finally. “You will, I trust, keep me informed of my brother’s condition.”

John nodded, and as the older man left he sighed, and settled in to wait – it was going to be a long night!


End file.
